


For the Better

by Naralanis



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Mirandy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 139,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fashion world is crazy about one Alexandra Saxton, Miranda included. But what does her ex-assistant have to do with it?</p><p>Originally posted at FanFiction.net, inspired by lazysunday30's brilliant fic 'Colorblind'. This is a long, slow, slow burn. Updates whenever I can provide them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After reading an unhealthy amount of DWP fics for a single weekend, my muse came up with this. It's practically writing itself, and I have absolutely no idea how long it will be. Also posted at FanFiction.net (same username).

Miranda Priestly was notorious for her many names in her industry, such as the Ice Queen, Dragon Lady, Devil in Heels, among other less impressive but equally terrifying monikers. Her mask was one set in stone, so powerful that a mere pursing of lips was enough to convey a dissatisfaction of catastrophic dimensions. Without the use of such small clues as a raised eyebrow or an almost imperceptible nod, it was virtually impossible to keep up with the volatile pace of the mercurial Editor-in-Chief of Runway magazine. Therefore, the best bet to avoid her icy wrath was to steer clear of her path whenever possible. If not, a religious adherence to the Golden Rules would be an acceptable, if not unstable course of action to not wake the Dragon.

  
Not today.

  
Today, true to all her names, the Devil in Prada was intent on making Hell a reality on Earth. Her version of Hell, however, was not basked in flames. Instead, the frigid atmosphere of her fury enveloped the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building, as her Louboutins clicked ferociously against the polished floor. Her mere presence was enough to send shivers down the spines of anyone in the vicinity, and clackers dispersed with terror as the Editor made her way through to the elevators with a scowl marring her usually collected features. Not a good sign. At all.

  
She had gotten to work much earlier than usual, leaving her luxurious townhouse the moment she had set her eyes on the paper. Her unexpected arrival sent her frantic employees into a panicked frenzy to get out of her way and make things look normal. Eliza, the frenetic first assistant, was shell-shocked when her boss marched in without even relieving herself of her coat and bag as she usually did. Panic set in as she realized her fumbling coworker was nowhere near arriving with Miranda's scalding coffee, but she did not have time to think about the consequences as the venomous voice coming from the office froze her to the core.

"Get me Anna. Now."

  
Eliza fumbled with her phone for two seconds too long before dialing that number. The number was ominous for what it represented, but the woman on the other end of the line was rivaled only by Miranda herself. The line only rang once before it was picked up by her counterpart. Eliza breathed a trembling breath.

  
Miranda sat at her desk still in her coat, her perfectly manicured nails tapping the glass not in impatience, but fury. Her right hand grasped her phone so tightly her knuckles went white as she waited for the light signaling the transfer to blink. She didn't even think about what was taking her incompetent assistant so long, her vision had tunneled into the bloody light and she waited, positively seething. As soon as it did blink, she jerked the receiver to her lips and spoke without bothering to conceal the steel in her icy tone.

  
"Anna."

  
"Miranda."

  
The Editor did not need to take even a breath. She knew her rival would know what she was talking about.

  
"Is. It. True?"

  
Silence. An almost imperceptible twitch manifested itself in her left eye as she prepared herself for the worst. 

  
"You know I do not gloat, Miranda" finally came the clipped retort.

  
The twitch ceased and the Ice Queen's shoulders visibly relaxed.

  
"So you do not have her?" she needed confirmation.

  
"If I did, you would only find out in the next edition."

  
She had thought so. No, she had known so, even if her demeanor told another story. Boasting triumphs, petty or not, over Page Six or any other kind of ridiculous publication was not Anna Wintour's style, and that Miranda could respect. She was a rival, yes, and a bitter one at that, but they played by the same rules. That was what made them excellent.

  
"I see. That's all." She hung up before the other woman had the opportunity to.

  
An uncharacteristic sigh of relief took over as Miranda threw her head back and contemplated the lights on the ceiling. Her fury had subsided, but her frustration had not relented. She was relieved Anna had not managed to get her hands on what she had arduously tried to acquire for the past seven years. It was bordering an obsession, but she was not alone in the seemingly exaggerated pursuit. Vogue wanted it just as badly, and so did the rest of the fashion world, ever since that first show during London Fashion Week.

  
Miranda had been the first person of real importance to see it. She would never admit it, but she owed it to her former assistant, Emily Charlton, who had just been promoted to Junior Editor at the time. Emily was in charge of scouting out the smaller shows, on the hunt for promising designers and potential up-and-comers, as Miranda wouldn't waste her time with every minor event. If there was anything that Emily thought would spark the Editor's interest, it was her job to bring it to Miranda's attention, and depending on how things went from there, Miranda would show her personal interest.

  
That time, however, it had been different. Emily had known about this particular designer for a little while, and it was completely by accident. A friend at British Runway had shown her some sketches— prints from a previous art gallery exhibition that were said to provide a sneak-peek of an oncoming collection by a then-unknown designer. The friend had acquired them because she thought they were pretty, but Emily at once saw the potential. So she had borrowed the prints and made her way to Miranda's hotel suite to try and talk the Editor into coming to a small showing taking place on the day after.

  
"As far as I'm aware, Emily, the whole reason you are here is so that I needn't waste my time with trivialities."

  
To her credit, Emily had not backed down.

  
"Yes, Miranda. However, I really think you would like to see this for yourself. I have sketches." She offered the folder she held to her chest to her boss.

  
Miranda's eyebrow arched, almost amused.

  
"And do tell, how have you come to obtain these?"

  
Emily explained about the gallery, and the prints her friend had shown. Miranda scoffed and muttered 'absolutely ridiculous', but opened the folder nonetheless, which was already a victory as far as the redhead was concerned. A small smile of satisfaction graced her lips as she noticed the Editor's eyes widen slightly in surprise as she turned the pages and ran her delicate hands over the drawings, almost in awe. Emily could have sworn Miranda had mouthed the word 'beautiful', and she beamed. Her boss snapped the folder shut and raised her eyes to the former assistant.

  
"Tomorrow. You will accompany me. If the showing is anything like any of these designs, we must get them onto the page as soon as possible. That's all."

  
To say that Miranda Priestly's presence at the show of a new, so-far insignificant designer had caused a stir was somewhat of an understatement. The press for the almost irrelevant event essentially quadrupled, and in hindsight Miranda would admit that it was not the best of ideas, since it created a previously inexistent demand for the designs. But she had to see it for herself, and she would never, in her entire life, forget that first collection. Privus, it was called, and she had never seen anything like it. It was not often that Miranda Priestly was impressed. Even she would admit that this designer's work was far beyond acceptable— it was exquisite. So exceedingly beautiful, fresh and yet classic, and, for whatever absurd reason, familiar. She had waited on the edge of her seat once it ended, awaiting the appearance of the designer in person. Oddly, it never came. The lights came back on after thunderous applause, and that was that. That would not do.

  
The fashion maven raised her chin up to Emily, motioning her to follow. They made their way backstage, their path clearing as they walked. Miranda turned to Emily.

  
"Find her, Emily. I have a career to make."

  
Emily nodded and disappeared into the crowd of reporters, proud with herself. This designer would obviously be big; she had not failed to notice Miranda's excitement with the show. She was pleased she was able to scout someone worthwhile for Runway, and, more importantly, for Miranda.

  
The silver-haired Editor had been waiting for an unacceptable amount of time. What was Emily doing? She wanted, no, needed to be the first to get her hands on this new talent. When her Junior Editor had shown her the prints the night before, she had been skeptical until she looked at them. Then and there, she knew there was great potential. The showing today confirmed her suspicions.

  
Just as her patience began to wear dangerously thin with the delay, Emily appeared with a tired look on her face, followed by a tall, impeccably dressed blonde, no doubt the designer. Miranda eyed the blonde with genuine interest, she was not dressed in any label the Editor could recognize, but she surmised it was the designer's own work. The woman directed her green eyes straight into Miranda's with respect, and Miranda nodded.

  
"Miranda Priestly. What a great honor to have you."

  
"Alexandra Saxton, I presume" Miranda greeted, extending her hand to the blonde, who took it in a firm handshake that screamed professionalism.

  
"I apologize, Ms. Priestly, but Ms. Saxton could not meet with you personally. I am Claire Murdoch, her assistant."

  
Miranda had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. Who did this Alexandra Saxton think she was? She offered her practiced smile to Claire.

  
"That is unfortunate; I would have greatly enjoyed meeting her. The show was beautiful."

  
"I shall pass your compliments on to Ms. Saxton. She will be honored."

  
"Will she remain in London for the rest of Fashion Week? If so, I would like to schedule a meeting— her designs have impressed me. I believe she has a place in Runway"  
Miranda did not usually deal with these matters in person, but she had been genuinely impressed. She wanted to be the first to feature Alexandra Saxton's work, and she would stop at nothing to get it. She smiled inwardly when she thought of how infuriated Anna Wintour would be for missing this great talent. She owed Emily a raise for talking her into going to the show.

  
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the answer she received.

  
"I do apologize, Ms. Priestly, but Ms. Saxton is not interested in featuring her designs in any publication for the time being."

  
That was the first wall Miranda Priestly had encountered in a while. And she was determined to break through it, just as she had done with all the other walls that had stood in her way throughout her long and prosperous career. Yet here she was, seven years later, and the wall still stood between her and Alexandra Saxton.

  
After that first showing, other publications started going after the designer. She hadn't been in Milan, but had a couple of small showings in Paris at the subsequent Fashion Week, all of which Miranda attended, personally. After those, every fashion-related publication was drawn to Alexandra Saxton like sharks to blood. Miranda had fierce competition to feature the designer, but she remained as elusive as ever. It seemed that Ms. Saxton was never present at her own shows, if she was, she absolutely refused to show her face. The media was in a frenzy, and Miranda patiently waited for the coming of the New York Fashion Week, as she had hopes to gain some advantage in her turf.

  
To her surprise, it came and went, and not a single showing by Alexandra Saxton took place. The Ice Queen was thrown for a loop, and if she had to be completely honest, she felt mildly insulted. She had her assistants on high alert, instructed to notify her whenever the name Alexandra Saxton appeared anywhere. And appear it did. Over and over, in bigger and bigger shows. The next year, in Paris, the Saxton show was one of the most anticipated events of the week, and the world of fashion was simply enchanted with the mysterious designer. Miranda had sulked in her hotel suite, annoyed with the lack of hints regarding the new Saxton collection. Since she had not been published anywhere, there were virtually no clues as to what Saxton's new work would entail, but Miranda was certain it would not disappoint. Saxton's meteoric rise was testimony enough— it had already transcended to the general public, courtesy of an extraordinary gown designed specifically for an Oscar-winning actress, and Miranda had no doubt there were more to come.

  
She had gone to the show with Emily and Nigel, leaving her useless assistant behind. Her companions talked animatedly about what they expected of the collection, but Miranda was silent as usual. She was impatient for the start, and could not suppress her sigh of relief when the lights dimmed. A word projected in white letters flashed in the dark: Caelestia; The name of the collection, no doubt. Miranda harrumphed.

  
"Heavenly? She must be confident indeed. What a pretentious name." She didn't mean it entirely. The silver-haired woman fully expected it to be divine, but she did think the name a bit presumptuous.

  
Nigel had just shrugged, already immersed on the show.

  
As soon as the first model appeared on the runway, Miranda had felt a shiver run down her spine. The piece was indeed divine, but that was not what had unsettled her, no. It was the color. She ignored the feeling manifesting itself in the pit of her stomach and pushed her tenseness aside. Then the next model made her way down. And the next, and the next, and the next. The color was obviously the main point, integrated in every piece in every each way, some more subtle than others. Miranda had to admit, it was quite daring to try something in such a different direction than most well-known names. She suppressed the urge to shift uncomfortably in her seat when one of the models passed her in some kind of sweater, bringing back memories and disappointments she had so diligently tried to forget. By the time the last model made her way out and back, clad in an entirely cerulean gown, Miranda's body was covered in goose bumps.

  
And so it had been for the past seven years. Alexandra Saxton had quickly become one of Miranda's favorite designers— of all time. Over the years, some of her alternative clothing lines had found their way into stores, a high end name extensively sought after by the wealthy elite. Miranda was no exception; even her girls had grown to appreciate the flawless and classic designs. In fact, Caroline loved the designer so much she had asked, no, begged for her mom to try and get Alexandra Saxton to design a dress for her prom. Miranda had no hopes, but still had Eliza contact the only person in the world who seemed to know the woman behind the myth: Claire Murdoch. To her surprise, she had gotten her answer the very next day— Saxton would design a gown not only for Caroline, but for Cassidy too. Her only request, expressed by her ever-faithful assistant, was that the gowns were not mentioned or featured anywhere on Runway. Miranda was miffed by the odd suggestion, but relented; she was known to do anything for her Bobbseys.

Snapping out of her reverie, Miranda realized she was still in her coat- no wonder the room had gotten so hot. She stood and took it off, throwing it at her couch instead of going back to her assistants' desks. The beginnings of a headache were coming on; she massaged her temples, annoyed. Where was her coffee? Had that idiotic girl died on her way from Starbucks or something? Not even her water was at her desk! Was there any limit to the incompetency of her string of assistants? She made a mental note to fire the girl soon. There was so much to do. London Fashion Week would begin in less than a week, and Miranda felt disheartened by the previews she had seen so far. James Holt was having an utterly miserable year indeed, Stella McCartney was dull at best, and even Valentino seemed uninspired. Donna Karan had seemed promising, at least compared to the rest so far. She had faint hopes that Lagerfeld would deliver something acceptable.

The voice of her first assistant interrupted her, coming through the door and announcing Emily Charlton was there for their meeting.

"Send her in."

Emily strode into the familiar office with a confidence only eight years of working for, with, and sometimes around the Devil in Prada could create. She had evolved a lot during her tenure, and though Miranda would never say it to her face, she personally thought the redhead had matured enough to one day— in the unforeseen future of course, perhaps when she was cold in her grave— to take her place as Editor in Chief.

"Good morning, Miranda. I have a couple of previews for you to see; Donatella has sent you an exclusive once again, and it seems that Vivienne will have a number of acceptable designs this year."

Miranda extended her hand for the folders Emily held, but the redhead paused. The Editor raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"Well, will I be able to see any of these previews before the day is over, Emily?"

Emily took a calming breath before straightening her back more than it already was.

"There's something else you need to know" she said.

Miranda raised her brow even more, and Emily had to fight hard to suppress a smirk.

"Alexandra Saxton sent something."

To her credit, the Ice Queen masked her expression of utter surprise extremely well, courtesy of years of practice, but Emily could tell she now had the Editor's full and undivided attention.

"Previews for London?"

Emily shook her head.

"Remember her collection in Paris, about six years ago?

"Caelestia, yes" Miranda nodded, unsure of the direction of the topic at hand "what of it?"

"She sent you her sketches for that collection."

The silver-haired editor scoffed, feigning indifference. "What could I possibly want with sketches of a collection that, albeit incredibly successful, is over six years old? Has she any sense?"

Emily cleared her throat. "I apologize, Miranda, I haven't made myself clear. She has sent you the original sketches of the Caelestia collection."

The Editor could not prevent the widening of her eyes in time. What on Earth? She angrily motioned for Emily to hand her the folders, tossing them aside except for one— a heavy-set, leather bound portfolio that she handled with extreme care, thinking it utterly surreal the elusive Alexandra Saxton had sent her anything, regardless of how outdated it was. There were no markings on the outside of the file, just exquisite black leather. Miranda took a calming breath as she opened it. She noticed a note clipped to the backside of the cover, handwritten in red ink onto beautiful stationery.

 

_Miranda,_

_A gift for two decades of excellence, from a fan._

_A. S._

  
Miranda turned the page with a knot in her stomach, an apprehensive breath caught in her throat, and her former-assistant's presence all but ignored. The first of the sketches greeted her, and it was just as beautiful as the collection that had touched her so deeply six years prior, but in a completely different way. Whereas the finished pieces had been stunning in their own right, the discovery of the inner workings of Alexandra Saxton's brilliant mind was an altogether different experience. They were utter chaos, but Miranda could distinguish the method behind the madness, seeing exactly how a jumble of raw ideas evolved into the exquisite final product. Different strokes of pencil and pen, scribbles and notes adorned page after page, along with annotations on different fabrics and materials, color scales and combinations, sizes and overall mechanics of each piece. The Editor had never seen anything so fascinating. The familiarity she felt with each and every bit of the designs was inexplicable. Why would Alexandra Saxton send her this? This collection specifically, nonetheless? Her supposedly frigid heart tightened— surely the great designer could not know of the special meaning attached to the color. There was no way; it was merely a coincidence.

"Miranda?"

She looked away from the pure magic she held in her hands, to her former assistant, beckoning her to go on.

"Would you like to run a feature on these sketches? There was no word from Ms. Saxton's assistant requesting us to refrain from publishing these." Emily said.

Miranda pondered for a moment. It would undoubtedly make for a rather interesting edition. That and it would be an exponential improvement to her day, going from Vogue's alleged ensnaring of the coveted designer to actually publishing something, anything from said designer in a matter of hours. Anna would be positively furious, not to mention green with envy. It would be a very satisfying and ironic turn of events, no doubt, but Miranda hesitated. It felt wrong, so she hesitated. It felt wrong because of the note attached to the sketches. This was not some air-headed designer— brilliant or not— yearning for their rise to fame through her magazine. No, Alexandra Saxton had garnered enough fame by doing the exact opposite. This was no ploy— the note was proof enough— this was something personal.

"No," she said, taking into account the surprised expression gracing her former assistant's features "I won't publish it." She unclipped the note, handing it to Emily. The redhead skimmed it quickly, understanding dawning on her face.

"It's a gift." Miranda continued "For my twenty years as Editor-in-Chief. A nice gesture."

 

"Right," Emily replied, handing back the note "that's too bad. It would certainly make a splash, to publish the mysterious A. Sax at last."

"Indeed." Miranda nodded, shuddering at the feeling that enveloped her at Emily's shortened version of the designer's name.

"Anyhow," Emily continued, unfazed "these are some of the last ones we have for London. I've contacted Lagerfeld's people; they'll have something coming your way by this afternoon."

The Editor nodded once again, getting her bearings for the hard day of work ahead. She could only hope Lagerfeld, and maybe Jacobs, would surprise her. She waved her hand, dismissing the redhead.

"That's all."

_Now where the Hell was her coffee?!_


	2. Chapter 2

Even though Emily Charlton absolutely adored living and working in New York, she would never be able to deny how at home she felt whenever she was back in London. Every time she visited, she fit right in, as if she had never left in the first place. Whenever she was in town, she made sure to reserve some time for her mother and father. This year, however, the time usually set aside for her parents was free as the elderly couple had taken an opportunity and gone on a cruise. Although she was a bit disappointed not to see them, she had to admit that they looked positively radiant in the pictures she'd seen. Due to this weird twist of fate, she found herself with a bit of free time right before London Fashion week. Deciding to make use of the rare treat, she strolled around her old neighborhood, a fond smile creeping up whenever she passed a significant building or landmark.

It was posh, and very much so, that she couldn't deny. Still, it was home, and happy memories warmed her heart as she took a trip down memory lane, remembering the streets, the bakery, her old house, her tumbles on roller-skates, the grocer's, the park. It was a very nice, peaceful walk; she made a note to herself to bring Serena along sometime. She had already visited the Brazilian's childhood home in Rio de Janeiro, so she thought it would be good for the blonde to visit hers as well.

The shrill sound of a school bell brought her back to reality, and she smiled once again. Somehow she had found her way to the square facing her old school. She looked on as the throngs of students leapt for their freedom after a day of classes and couldn't help a chuckle— the uniforms had not changed since she was a little girl. She walked distractedly along the square, when all of a sudden a small mass of chestnut hair collided with her with quite some force, almost knocking her off her feet.

"Ooomph!"

Emily managed to expertly balance herself on her Blahnik pumps with a dexterity that came from years of running around in stilettos. The child that had run into her, however, was not so lucky; she had tumbled to the ground landing on her bum, scattering the books she had been carrying in her small arms.

"Goodness, are you alright?" She knelt in front of the fallen child, quickly checking for scraped knees and, most importantly, tears.

The little girl looked up at her with an expression that more closely resembled embarrassment than pain. Emily was caught a bit off guard by her big, bright, doe-brown eyes. Why did they look so terribly familiar?

"M'sorry, miss. I didn't see you." She said apologetically, looking at her books on the ground and kneeling to gather them up.

Emily gave her a little reassuring smile and began picking up the books as well.

"It's quite alright. I wasn't looking at where I was going either."

The face-splitting grin the little girl aimed her way was even more eerily familiar than her baleful eyes. She shook her head, extending her hand to help her up, when a voice called from behind her.

"Allie?"

The girl's grin widened as she looked over the redhead's shoulder to whoever had just called her, sounding decidedly American to Emily's ears. She took Emily's offered hand and pulled herself up, finishing it off with a handshake.

"Thanks, miss!"

Emily blinked as the little girl made her way towards the person beckoning her, and turned around as if to check if there were really no injuries from the fall. Allie stopped and hugged a woman standing a couple of feet from where she had fallen.

Instinctively, Emily took in the outfit of the woman, as it was her second-nature to examine those kinds of things. With a surprised huff, she realized she was impeccably dressed in a pinstriped Alexandra Saxton pantsuit that fit her like a glove, a lightweight Donna Karan trench coat and classic Louboutins on her feet. She was carrying a fancy-looking leather messenger bag and held a black leather binder to her chest. It took the redhead a moment to look at the woman's face, but when she did, she found shocked brown eyes looking right into hers, and plum-tinted lips parted in a gasp of surprise.

"Emily?!"

"Bloody Hell!"

The two women stood in bewildered silence looking each other over once more. Emily could not believe her eyes. The superbly attired woman in front of her was none other than Andrea  _bloody_ Sachs! What on Earth was she doing in London?

"Andy?! Andy Sachs?" Emily composed herself.

She was greeted by Andy's face-splitting grin, and at once figured out why the little girl's had looked so familiar.

"The one and only." Andy laughed, very clearly amused beyond belief.

The little girl looked from one woman to the other, not really understanding what was happening. She tugged at Andy's trouser leg.

"Mum, who's she?"

_Mum._ Andrea Sachs was dressed to kill in a posh London neighborhood, and she was a  _mother._  Emily couldn't wait to tell Nigel. Andrea took the girl's hand in hers and lowered herself to her side with unexpected grace.

"Allie, this is Emily. She worked with mum a long time ago, before you were born." She clarified, before turning to the redhead. "What brings you to London, Em? Fashion Week, I presume?"

Emily huffed, very much like she used to when she had worked alongside Andrea as Miranda's assistant, but she did it good-naturedly, returning Andy's disbelieving smile.

"I should be the one asking you that, Sachs," she teased "you disappear off the face of the Earth to reemerge in London, of all places? And with a kid, no less!"

Andy grinned, ruffling her bangs exactly as she used to back when she worked at  _Runway_. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Well, y'know. Life. It's a long story."

Emily's eyebrows perked up.

"I do hope you have the time to tell it— I've got a free day and I intend to make use of it!"

The two women engaged in pleasant conversation as they made their way to a nearby bakery, little Allie in tow, looking at Emily with a curious expression every now and then. They sat at a booth in the corner window, mostly withdrawn from the rest of the establishment. Andy and Allie shared a flaky chocolate concoction that looked absolutely sinful with a raspberry drizzle; which had Emily fighting off the urge to roll her eyes. Some things had not changed. The redhead was happy with a teeny fruit tart—the least fattening item the menu had to offer.

"So, how has life been in Runway for the past few years?" Andy asked, while her daughter busied herself by drawing on some napkins.

"Busy, as I am sure you know. I was promoted to Junior Editor a couple of months after you…well. You know". Emily knew Andy's departure was still a touchy subject with Miranda, even after all the time that had passed. She was surprised to see the look of utter guilt and embarrassment that came over the brunette's features.

"Uh, yeah… I know."

The redhead decided to change subject.

"What have you done with your life since  _The Mirror_? We saw some of your articles for a few months, but then you vanished."

"You read  _The Mirror?_ " Andy asked, surprised.

"Well, yes. Once you were hired, Miranda had me add the subscription." Emily said, matter-of-factly.

"Oh" Andy smiled sheepishly "yeah, after a while I was a bit disillusioned with writing, I don't know. I needed a change."

"So you just went to London out of the blue? Quite drastic, even for you."

"Yeah, it was an adventure."

"But what do you do now?"

"Now? Eh, well, I…dabble in uh… photography and such. I co-own a small gallery with a friend of mine."

"Is that so? Congratulations, you must be doing exceptionally well— what, with this neighborhood,  _that_ school. Not to mention the get-up, I mean, really, Sachs. Thank God you didn't forget what you learned at  _Runway_ — you're wearing Alexandra Saxton, for Pete's sakes! I wouldn't have thought you even knew about her, let alone wear her…  _stuff_ Although I have to admit, it's kind of hard to escape her at the moment—she's everywhere _._ "

Andy blushed profusely.

"Yeah, well. Wait. You know this neighborhood?"

Emily snickered.

"I was only born and raised here," she said "I actually studied at Hawkes Academy for years!"

"Really?! Talk about a small world!"

Their conversation was interrupted by the furious ringing of a mobile phone. Andy looked at Emily apologetically before fishing the offending gadget out of her bag. She took one glance at the caller id and frowned.

"My bad, Em, I need to step outside for a moment and take this. I'll be right back."

Emily nodded as the brunette motioned her daughter to stay put and made her way through the bakery, barking into the phone, seemingly annoyed. The redhead turned her attention to the little girl sitting directly in front of her, right next to the window. She was still absorbed with her drawings on the many napkins she'd gathered— two neat little piles separated the ones already marked by her scribbles and the ones awaiting the same fate. Emily turned her head slightly to take a better look at what was being drawn. She could not suppress a smile when she realized they were clothes— little faceless mannequins modeled puffy skirts and hats and draped gowns and scarves. She had to hold a snort; it figures, the daughter of Andy Sachs would be interested in  _fashion_ of all things. Though she supposed it wasn't as funny as it would have been if Andy had retained that god-awful fashion sense from when she had first started at  _Runway_. She took another look— Allie was now very occupied with some sort of coat; she couldn't really tell if it was supposed to be a trench-coat or a dress. True, the drawings bore testament to the skill level of a, even if somewhat talented it seemed, six year old child. To be fair, in Emily's opinion, that only made it more adorable.

"What is it that you're working on over there?" she ventured.

"It's a dress for a lady detective" the little girl answered, not taking her eyes off her work.

Lady detective?  _Adorable._

"Do you like drawing clothes?"

"Yeah. I want to be just like my mum when I grow up."

Like Andy? Andy Sachs liked to  _draw? Clothes?_  Emily knew Andy wrote, and that was it. She had occasionally noticed some interesting doodles on the brunette's notepad while she still worked at  _Runway_ , but she had never really paid them any mind.

"Your mum likes to draw clothes? That's funny." Emily said.

The little girl paused her drawing to look at Emily with a quirked eyebrow. Could this little one get any cuter?

"Why?" she asked, suspicious.

"Well," Emily began "when I worked with your mother, she didn't really like clothes at all."

Allie's expression turned to skepticism.

"No, that can't be. Mum loves clothes. She makes her own." She stated matter-of-factly, turning back to her dress for a lady detective.

It was Emily's turn to raise an eyebrow, only this time it was disbelief. Andy Sachs, fashionista, artist and  _seamstress_? What was the world coming to? She didn't have time to ponder it any further, however, as Andrea clicked her way back into the establishment, an annoyed look on her face that turned to apologetic once she reached the table.

"That was the st—the gallery. There's been some mix-up, and I'm needed there, yesterday."

Emily waved her off. "Oh, Andy, it's fine. Busy, busy, busy, if anyone in the world gets it, I do."

"That is true." Andy chuckled and motioned Allie to get up and follow her, in a hurry.

"It was really nice seeing you, Em. I'll be around Fashion Week, maybe we'll bump into each other again" she flashed that grin that Emily remembered so well; the one that just lit up a room.

"Nice running into you Sachs. I'll see you around."

They quickly embraced and Emily was caught off guard when Allie threw herself into her legs, hugging her tightly.

"Bye, Emily!"

The redhead waved goodbye as mother and daughter quickly stepped out of the bakery hand-in-hand and flagged a passing taxi. Only when the black cab had already sped off she realized they hadn't exchanged phone numbers, and slapped her own forehead at the realization. 'Way to go, Charlton', she thought to herself. Nothing to be done now, she sighed. Chuckling in amusement, she couldn't way to tell Nigel who she had run into, and how. The man had always held a soft spot for his 'Six'. He would not believe how much Andy had changed— the nickname was not even accurate anymore. She would have to be careful not to mention the encounter around Miranda, however. The Editor's mood dropped considerably whenever Andy Sachs was mentioned, though the occasions to mention the former second assistant were very few and far between. Emily figured Miranda had never forgiven the brunette for leaving her in Paris— although the details of why she did so were pretty vague. Emily had somewhat reconciled when Andy gave her the clothes from Paris, but Miranda was another matter altogether. Still, the redhead could not for the life of her figure out why her boss had given Andrea a recommendation instead of blacklisting her for life.

She looked out of the window into the street. It was a newer, trendier part of the neighborhood, but still there were some remnants of the buildings and streets she used to know like the palm of her hand. Glancing away from the window, something on the table caught her eye— a black squared shape resting across from her. Upon further observation, she realized with a start that it was the folder Andrea had been carrying. The redhead whipped her head around to look outside, in vain; she knew full well the taxi had long taken off with the two brunettes.

'Well, bugger' she thought to herself. She resisted the temptation of opening the folder to take a peek at its contents— it was one of those binders generally used to store A4 photographs; no doubt it had something to do with Andy's current line of work. The brunette  _had_ mentioned she "dabbled" in photography, had she not? Emily drummed her fingers on the binder, deep in thought. How would she return the bloody thing? She didn't even have Andrea's phone number! It would not do to just carry the thing around, hoping to bump into her again during Fashion Week. That was unacceptable.

Suddenly an idea came to Emily. Andy and her daughter seemed to know the place really well; there was a chance they were regulars at the place. No doubt once she realized her binder was no longer in her possession Andy would retrace her steps to where she had last seen it. Or so she hoped. The redhead gathered her things, holding firmly onto the binder, and made her way to the counter, where an elderly lady was setting up some sweets on a glass bowl.

"Excuse me?"

The woman greeted her with a smile.

"Hello dear, how can I help you?"

"The tall brunette who sat with me a little while ago— the one with the little girl. Do they come here often?" she asked, hopeful.

"Oh, fairly often. Once a week, I'd say."

'Thank God' Emily thought.

"Well, she left in a hurry and forgot her binder here. She'll probably come back here looking for it— could you give her this phone number and tell her 'Emily' has it?" she handed the lady one of the napkins Allie had not drawn on, after writing her name and number on it.

"Of course. I'll be sure to tell her if she comes."

"Thank you." Emily smiled, as she walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

"Am I reaching for the stars here, Mark? No, not really. I really find it hard to believe you are unable to follow simple instructions, but perhaps you are doing your very best to prove me wrong. So you better find me some suitable substitute by morning, or I'll be forced to go with another supplier.  _That's all._ "

The steel in her voice ebbed away and she clicked her phone shut. Idiots, she was surrounded by idiots. She sighed and rubbed her temples, in vain attempting to fend off the incoming headache. Some things she had to do herself— it was her assistant's day off, after all.

Andy reclined on her stuffed chair, and allowed herself a chuckle of amusement at her antics, those she had picked up during her tenure as assistant to the feared and revered Fashion Queen. She shuddered. They  _were_ indeed useful, but every time she had to put them to use, she was reminded of her last day under Miranda Priestly's employment— and, more importantly, what the silver-haired editor had said in their last car ride together. Andy brushed the thought away; it wouldn't do to think about her now. Or ever. Not that she could help it, but she would try. Her unexpected encounter with Emily brought back memories she had fought to keep in the background for years; with limited success.

She smiled, thinking of the redhead. Although there was no love lost between her and the Brit when she first started, they had warmed up to each other; a tentative friendship that had been consolidated after Andy had given her all of her Paris wardrobe. She felt guilty for disappearing without a trace, mostly because of Emily and Nigel. And even guiltier for completely forgetting to ask for the redhead's phone number now that they had finally met again.

Once again, she brushed the thought of her former coworkers aside— too many skeletons in that closet. She needed a distraction. Something to keep her mind focused and unperturbed until the small hours of the morning. Work, she would work. Andy quickly sent her assistant a message, warning about the little issue she had run into and (hopefully) resolved earlier. With a tired sigh, she silently thanked the woman; she'd never be able to make it without her assistance.

Once she decided work was exactly what she needed, she made her way to the living room, where Allie was stretched out onto a fluffy rug watching TV. Minerva, their cat, was curled up at her side, and Andy had to smile at the scene. She knelt down to kiss her daughter on the cheek and pet Minerva, evoking a playful cry of "Muuum, eew!" and a satisfied purr, respectively. She grabbed her messenger bag and strolled into her studio, setting the coffee machine for a little later.

Rummaging her bag, Andy suddenly was overtaken by a sense of panic. Where… She removed all of the bag's contents, just to make sure she wasn't going crazy. No, this couldn't be right. Was it even  _in_ her bag at any point? Maybe she had carried it in her arms, probably placing it on the dining room table as they first arrived. Yes, that was it.

Except it wasn't. The panic became very real once she realized the black binder was nowhere in her home. Her hands became cold and clammy, a film of sweat formed on her brow. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She quickly retraced her steps in her mind. Leaving the studio with it, picking Allie up at school and running into Emily… The bakery, the taxi… She hadn't gotten into the cab with the binder in her hands, had she? No…

The bakery. Andy glanced at the clock; it was unlikely Emily was still there. If she had left the binder on the table, no doubt the redhead had seen it. She froze.

No doubt the redhead had seen it!

Andy forced herself to sit down before she collapsed onto the ground. There was a chance Emily hadn't opened it. It wasn't like her to snoop. Was it? She could only hope. Quickly whipping out her phone, she was posed to dial until she remembered, once again, she didn't have the redhead's phone number. Stupid! In one last ditch effort, she looked up the bakery's phone number and dialed, taking shallow breaths.

"Morton's Bakery and Café, how can I help you?"

"Excuse me" Andy said a little forcefully "I was just there a while ago; it seems that I left a black leather binder on my table—the booth far back, by the window."

"Ah, yes, your friend has it" the woman on the other end of the line said cheerfully. "She gave me her phone number in case you came back looking for it."

Andy's breath hitched.

"Um, ah, was she a redhead? Tall, blue eyes?"

The lady confirmed. "Yes, Emily, I believe is her name. Would you like me to read out her number for you?"

"Yes, please."

Andy scrambled for pen and paper as the woman read out Emily's number. She thanked her and hung up as a shudder took over her body. As she stared at the number on the piece of paper she held tightly in her hands, she could only hope against hope that Emily had not opened the binder.

If she had, it would be a disaster.

* * *

Emily heard a knock at the door of her hotel suite. Looking through the peephole, she found her friend Nigel Kipling standing in the corridor, his nose purposefully extremely close to the door so that it was pretty much all she could see. She swung the door open with a snort.

"Come in, you twit." He took a hand to his chest in an exaggerated expression of mock hurt.

"You wound me, Emily."

"Ah, you'll live" she smiled. "You would not believe who I ran into a couple of hours ago"

He took a seat on the couch and patted the cushion next to him, motioning for her to sit. Once she did, he crossed his legs and leaned over dramatically.

"Well, dish!"

"Andy Sachs." She said bluntly, just to see the expression on his face.

She was not disappointed. Nigel's jaw dropped almost instantly, and his eyes all but bulged out of his face, which looked even more comical over the rims of his glasses.

"Six?!" he exclaimed in disbelief "What's she doing in London, of all places? How on Earth did you run into her?"

"It was complete coincidence. I was taking a stroll around my old neighborhood."

"What would someone like Andy be doing at that place?" Nigel asked, fully aware of which neighborhood Emily was talking about. It just didn't seem like a place one was likely to meet Andy Sachs in. He raised his eyebrows as Emily shook her head.

"You should have seen her, Nigel. The years have been very kind to our little 'fat, smart' girl. She looked incredible—Saxton pantsuit and Louboutins on her feet. Plus, I hardly think 'Six' is an appropriate name now."

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you? No? Well then, I'm certainly glad at least some of what her fairy godmother drilled into that pretty little head of hers stuck!" It was Nigel's turn to shake his head, this time in disbelief. He'd have to see it to believe it.

"Did you talk? What does she do now?" he asked.

"We did talk for a while—we went to some bakery to sit and catch up. She mentioned she, and I quote,  _dabbled_ in photography and co-owned a small gallery with a friend."

" _Photography? Gallery?_  Didn't she want to be a journalist?"

Emily shrugged. "Seems she was a bit disillusioned with  _The Mirror._ She didn't go into much detail."

"Well, doesn't the world go round and round? Who would have thought? Andy Sachs, a well-dressed artist in London! She must be doing pretty well for herself, if the Saxton and the Louboutins are any indication."

"Nigel, that's not all" Emily said.

He smirked at his friend. "Pray tell, what more do you have to tell on our dear old friend?"

"She's got a kid!" Emily smiled. "A little girl named Allie. Nigel, she looks  _exactly_ like Andrea, it's almost scary. That's how I met her in the first place— I was walking by my old school, and the little girl quite literally ran  _into_ me."

Nigel's expression was one of surprise and glee.

"Well look at momma Six! And her kid goes to your old school? Now that's a coincidence!"

Emily nodded, in agreement. Small world, indeed!

"Please tell me you've got her number— I would really like to meet her sometime before we leave. Maybe we could go out for drinks, the three of us?" he said, hopeful.

"No, like an idiot I forgot to ask her for it. But," she continued as Nigel's face fell "she forgot this binder when she left in a hurry after a phone call. I left my number and name with the bakery, so when she goes looking for it, she can call." She smiled.

"Well, and what is in this mysterious binder? Some of her  _dabbling_ in photography, maybe?" Nigel's eyebrows waggled as he eyed the binder resting on the coffee table in front of them.

"I wouldn't know— I didn't look" Emily said truthfully.

Nigel scoffed.

"Honestly, Emily, I'm disappointed. Eight years without seeing the girl, and you're not even a little bit curious?" He reached for the binder.

"Nigel! It could be personal!" the redhead scolded, even if she was just as curious, especially since Andrea had been so evasive about what she was doing with her life, changing the subject almost instantly. Still, she wasn't one to go looking through other people's things.

"How magnanimous of you. If it is personal, don't worry," he brought a finger to his lips playfully "I'll never tell!" he laughed, whipping the binder open and turning so that it was out of the redhead's reach, before Emily could slap it shut.

The Brit was fully prepared to scold Nigel even further and take the binder out of his hands, but his expression of utter surprise and something akin to terror made her hesitate. He flipped page after page, his face blanching at every turn. She thought she heard him mumble 'it can't be' and 'it's not possible', but before she could ask he suddenly stood up and began pacing, the binder still in his hands. The display was really wearing on her nerves.

"Nigel! What is it!?" she hissed.

Nigel could only mumble incoherently before he gave up on forming a complete sentence entirely, motioning for Emily to come toward him instead. The redhead huffed and made her way to the babbling man, annoyed and angry at her friend. She already had a reprimand at the ready, when the content of the pages caught her eye. Whatever she was about to say immediately left her mind, and her own jaw dropped.

"Oh, my God."

The binder was replete with sketches. But not  _just_ sketches—oh no. Emily would recognize those outlines anywhere. She had been one of the first to actually see them for what they were, after all. Yes, she knew with all her heart she would recognize the style of Alexandra Saxton's illustrations anywhere. And these were originals, no doubt about it. She trembled with the realization. Were these previews for London Fashion Week?! No, they couldn't be, Emily realized after a more thorough observation— they were not the right season.

Nigel's lower lip trembled slightly as he next spoke, finally finding his voice.

"Why would  _Andy Sachs_  have Alexandra Saxton's preliminary designs?!" he almost screeched "Does she do any photography work for her?"

"I don't know, I-I…" suddenly Emily's eyes widened and her breath hitched painfully in her throat as she remembered her short interaction with Andrea's daughter in the bakery, mere hours before.

_I want to be just like Mum when I grow up. Mum loves clothes. She makes her own._

Emily managed to force her wobbly legs to take her back to the couch, where she collapsed, trembling. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. Nigel was wrong. Andrea Sachs didn't do any kind of photography for Alexandra Saxton. Andrea Sachs  _was_ Alexandra Bloody Saxton!

"Bloody Hell, Nigel!" Emily all but screamed, startling the bespectacled man in front of her. She quickly relayed the details of her encounter with the Sachs girls.

"The little girl was drawing  _clothes_ , Nigel! 'She makes her own', she said! Nigel, Andy IS Alexandra Saxton!"

"Are you sure?" Nigel asked, although he didn't sound exceptionally skeptical. Emily only nodded her confirmation.

"What about Miranda?"

"What about her?" the redhead raised her eyebrow.

"What do we tell her?"

"Absolutely nothing!'' Emily was vehement. Miranda was never in the best of moods when Andrea was mentioned, and the brunette had chosen to remain anonymous for a reason; a reason that Emily would be able to bet had something to do with the silver-haired icon. She was neither ready nor willing to dive head-first into  _that_ mess.

"Well, alright. The first thing we have to do is talk to Andy." Nigel began "Once she calls, set up a date; let's all go for drinks or dinner someplace. Then we can ask her all about it."

"We will do no such thing! We'll return the binder and pretend we never saw a thing!" Emily hissed.

"But Em, don't you want to know  _why_?" he countered.

"Of course I do. But as much as I'd like to absolutely grill Andrea on the subject, she has never shown her face for a reason. We were never supposed to lay eyes on these" she indicated the sketches "and we'll keep it that way."

Nigel sighed, defeated. The entire world of fashion was dying to know who the mysterious Alexandra Saxton was, but he had to admit Emily was right. As much as he would love to, he knew it was not their place to share what they had learned with the world. Or with Miranda. On one hand, he knew it was the right thing to do, but on the other, he would loathe to let such an opportunity pass them by. The look his coworker was giving him, however, silenced him on the issue.

"Here's what we're going to do. She'll call, we'll set up a meeting for drinks, we'll return this binder, we'll catch up as former coworkers do, and that will be the end of it" Emily said with a tinge of steel in her tone that eerily reminded him of his boss.

Nigel could only nod, chagrined. He closed the folder containing the precious sketches and handed it to Emily, who set it back onto the coffee table. She sighed.

"Come on— let's go to the bar. I could use a drink." The redhead offered her arm.

"So could I" Nigel muttered, his head still reeling.

Thankfully the bar wasn't terribly crowded, which gave the two coworkers space to themselves. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, both wanting to talk about their recent discovery but still afraid to. Emily fidgeted constantly with her mobile, looking at it every five seconds, which was driving Nigel crazy. He was about to call her out on it when the blasted thing started ringing, making him almost drop his drink and causing Emily to choke at the unidentified number showing on her screen.

The Brit took a few seconds to compose herself— two additional rings of her phone and a desperate look from Nigel shot her way precisely — before answering.

"Emily Charlton" she said in her most professional tone.

"Em? It's Andy" she sounded cautious, and Emily couldn't help but think the brunette suspected what had happened. She did her best to keep her tone light.

"Andy, hello. Glad you called." She rolled her eyes at Nigel, who had smacked his forehead at her forcibly nonchalant response.

"Yeah, I got your number from the bakery. You uh… got my binder, I guess?" Andy was very clearly uncomfortable. Emily immediately knew her decision to pretend they were unaware of the binder's contents was the correct course of action.

"Yeah, I do… You left in quite a hurry, and I didn't know how to get it back to you. I forgot to ask for your phone number. I was thinking maybe we could meet up so I could return it."

"Ah, uh, that's OK, you can just send it over to my address, or I could come pick it up at your hotel."

"Nonsense, your fairy godmother wants to see you and catch up as well. When are you free?" Emily risked it.

The other line was silent for a few moments as Andy deliberated.

"I have some free time tonight if that's OK with you guys" she finally responded.

"Marvelous. 7 sound alright? There's a nice quiet pub not too far from our hotel, I can text you the address."

"Uh, yes, that would be fine. I'll see you guys then."

Once the conversation was over Emily sighed. She hoped Andy hadn't caught on. She and Nigel would really have to work on their poker faces so they didn't worry the brunette to death. But how they would attend the upcoming Saxton show and pretend they were as clueless as the rest of the world would be another matter altogether, especially with Miranda around.

"Emily?! Oh, thank God!"

Emily turned her head to the direction her name was called from in an utterly desperate tone. Nigel squinted to get a better look at the incoming girl. Eliza, Miranda's current first assistant. Not entirely incompetent, but still not quite adept enough to provide a headache-free workday to her boss. No, not even Emily had accomplished that. She shuddered thinking about the only one who had ever managed such a miraculous feat.

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Eliza? Calm down" she scolded.

"I don't have the Jacobs proofs! I need the Jacobs proofs! Please tell me you have them, or she's going to kill me!" the assistant huffed and puffed, her face red with the effort of running like a headless chicken. A superbly dressed headless chicken in Jimmy Choos.

Emily rolled her eyes and fished out her extra room key from her bag. She would help the girl out, just this once. It  _was_ London Fashion Week after all; things would only get more chaotic as they went.

"Here you are. It's the folder right on the side table. Now  _get a move on_ , you suicidal maniac." She all but threw her keycard at the desperate girl, shaking her head when she received the latter's utterly exceedingly grateful look before she ran away to avoid Miranda's wrath.

"A forgetful one, isn't she?" Nigel commented.

"She usually has her head on straight, but can buckle under too much pressure." Emily explained.

"Well, she'd better  _buckle up_  then. Where are we meeting Andy?" he changed the subject.

"At The Clansman at seven. I've texted her the address."

"The Clansman?" Nigel wrinkled his face in distaste. "Couldn't it be somewhere nicer?"

"It's a place Miranda won't unexpectedly walk into, and it's far enough from the hotel. I'm not her assistant anymore, I don't know her schedule verbatim." The redhead scoffed.

"Good point. Think they will have anything other than pints of beer though?" he asked, genuinely worried.

Emily allowed herself to laugh. "No, I don't think they'll have Cosmopolitans, Nigel."

He sighed. "A guy can dream, no?"


	4. Chapter 4

Andy Sachs was jittery with nerves. She had arrived at The Clansman fifteen minutes early— another practice from her iconic former boss she had almost subconsciously picked up. But Miranda Priestly would never be  _jittery with nerves_ , oh no. Perish the thought. She took a calming breath as she waited for Emily, Nigel, and her binder. She prayed to every kind of deity she knew of (and even a few she imagined to be merely fictional) that Emily had not taken a look at its contents. If she had, Andy was sure she would be done for; her name and her brand would probably crumble as she was blacklisted by the highest power in the fashion world, because of course, if Emily knew, Miranda would surely get wind of it, one way or another. Then again, there was no indication that the redhead knew about what was in the binder during their phone conversation. At this point, all Andy could do was hope for the best.

She glanced nervously around the pub. It was pretty empty, but nonetheless she had gone for the most private booth she could find. Perched at the edge of her seat, she looked at the front door every five seconds to catch Emily and Nigel as they came in. The beer she had ordered to calm down had gone flat; she couldn't bring herself to drink it, afraid she would choke in her anticipation.

Finally, a familiar redhead came through the door, dressed surprisingly casually in True Religion dark skinny jeans and a plaid button up shirt. She had, thankfully, Andy's binder under her arm, and a bald, bespectacled man in a lilac dress shirt and black slacks in tow. She couldn't help but smile at the thought of her two former coworkers. Andy rose from her seat and waved, catching Nigel's attention. He gave her a nervous smile once he spotted her, and led Emily by the arm toward the booth the brunette was sitting in.

"Six!" he greeted animatedly "It's been forever! How are you doing? Looking good!" he took her hand and gave her a twirl before leaning in to embrace her. Andy returned the hug, genuinely happy to see her 'fairy godmother' again.

"I've been good, Nigel. What about you? How is it going?"

Nigel chuckled and answered something along the lines of 'crazy as ever' when Emily cleared her throat. Andy turned to look at the redhead; she had her arm out, hand grasping at the black binder.

"Here's your binder" she said sheepishly.

There were a couple of seconds of tense silence, and Emily and Nigel knew that Andy was assessing whether they knew. With a crooked smile, Andy took the binder from Emily's hands and motioned for them to sit.

"Thanks, Em" Andy finally said, almost certain that her friends had no idea of what the binder contained— she suppressed a sigh of relief. The three sat in the booth, Nigel chattering about  _Runway_ and Fashion Week while Emily ordered them drinks. Andy let herself relax, finally comfortable.

"So, Emily tells me you've got a little one now, eh? Momma Sachs, who'd have thunk?"

Andy could not contain a proud smile.

"Yes, Allie" she said, grabbing her wallet from her purse and taking out a small photograph to show the two "she turns six in a couple of weeks."

Nigel and Emily smiled at the adorable little girl in the photo. The likeness to her mother was uncanny.

"She looks exactly like you, Andy." Emily commented.

"Yeah, she does. Pardon me for asking, but we haven't seen you for so long— what of her father? Are you married?" Nigel asked, earning a discreet but painful elbow to the ribs from the redhead sitting next to him.

"It's alright Nigel, I don't mind" Andy stared at her drink thoughtfully. "She was, uh... a surprise. Her father wanted nothing to do with her, so it's just us two. We're very happy though." Her famous thousand-watt grin left no question of her sincerity.

Nigel nodded in understanding. "Well" he said "she's got a wonderful mother."

The trio soon fell into a comfortable chatter, talking about life and work. Andy answered whatever questions they asked, but her answers turned vague whenever the subject veered towards specifics of her line of work. Luckily, she managed to steer the conversation to safer topics, changing subjects with ease without being blatantly obvious. Her left hand rested possessively on the binder atop the table, which did not go unnoticed to Nigel and Emily; though they refrained to comment. Their strategy seemed to be working— Andy seemed relaxed besides her hold on the binder.

As the atmosphere became gradually more comfortable, Andy regaled her coworkers with stories about her daughter— usually featuring all of the mischief the child got herself into from an astoundingly early age. It was quite clear that little Allie had been a handful from the very start. The brunette pretended to be offended when Emily commented she was not surprised, while Nigel laughed and agreed heartily. At one point she had taken out her phone and shown them her rather extensive collection of snapshots from the very beginning of her daughter's short life. They ranged from an infant with an impressive mop of brown hair to a radiant little girl in her pressed uniform, ready for her first day of school, her face-splitting grin mirroring her mother's exactly.

"She's absolutely adorable" Emily had said more than once, and Andy could not help but be a little amused. She would have never imagined that the Emily Charlton she had met at  _Runway_ would like kids so much. Nigel had also fawned over the pictures, going so far as asking for permission to refer to Allie as "Little Six", which earned him a glare from both the girl's mother and his coworker.

Andy found herself really enjoying their chat after a while, and was reminded of how much she missed this kind of social interaction. Between her daughter and her work, she barely had enough time for any form of personal life and outings with friends— not that she had many friends to begin with. She was mostly with her assistant— both in an out of work. In fact, her assistant was the one babysitting Allie tonight, and she silently thanked the woman in her thoughts.

After a while Emily excused herself to the loo, while Nigel decided to venture to the bar in a quest for "any drink that sparkles", in his own words. Their brief absence from the table allowed Andy's thoughts to go back to the binder she still rested her hand possessively on. She had almost thanked the heavens out loud when neither Nigel nor Emily gave any indication whatsoever that they had looked inside. Now, she was impatient to do just that; just take a peek to assure herself everything was fine. She just  _had_ to check. So, after discreetly looking around the pub to ensure neither of her companions were in her immediate vicinity, she opened the front cover, just enough so she could take a quick look at the upper corner of the first page.

What she was greeted with froze her into place with dread and anger. Her brown eyes turned to glass, and her jaw went completely rigid. She curled her hands into fists subconsciously, her knuckles white with the sheer strength of the action.

Nigel, meanwhile, had succeeded in his quest— he was walking back to their table with a sparkling purple concoction, quite pleased with himself. As he weaved around the denser crowd, he noticed Andy take a peek at the infamous binder and freeze. Her reaction prompted him to stop in his tracks, certain that the evening was about to take a sharp, sharp turn for the worse. Something was clearly wrong— he could tell that Andy was seething in her seat. The expression of wrath turned her brown eyes almost black, and it was enough to send a shiver down his spine. Those furious eyes scanned the crowd, searching, and before he could duck for cover somewhere, anywhere, they found him and he could swear he felt the burn. Mustering whatever shred of courage he thought he had, Nigel made his way back to the booth, Andy's predatory gaze never once leaving his.

Right then and there, Nigel knew that she knew that they  _knew_. As he sat down, a poisonous voice that simply could not belong to the happy-go-lucky 'Six' he once knew reached his ears.

"Care to explain?"

Nigel's lower lip trembled as he tried to find the words.

"I'd rather wait for Emily to return." He finally said.

Andy scoffed, again in that venomous fashion that seemed so unlike her, and started tapping her nails against the grimy tabletop in utter fury. Nigel's drink was forgotten, even though his throat as suddenly parched. The silence between the two was more than merely uncomfortable; it was tense and heavy with accusation and guilt. Even the surrounding sounds of the pub's other patrons seemed to dim entirely; all Nigel could hear was the furious clicking of the brunette's nails.

Emily was taking forever, and Nigel didn't think he could take it much longer. He was able to contain an audible sigh of relief when the redhead finally returned. As she approached, she immediately felt the tension that hadn't been there when she had left. Andy looked absolutely murderous, and Nigel had an unhealthy green tinge to his skin. Uh-oh.

"Care to explain?" Andy repeated.

Emily sat and looked intently into the brunette's eyes.

"Explain what, exactly?" she tried, fully aware she was walking on very, very thin ice.

Andy's responding scoff burned the redhead in a way she had never thought possible for the brunette. It was frightfully similar to Miranda's, but Emily realized with a start what the difference was. Miranda's ire was ice and steel; whereas Andy's fury was fire and iron.

"Have you suddenly lost the use of your mental capacities, Emily?" Andy retorted, her voice dripping with acid.

She reached for the binder now resting at the very middle of the table and flipped it open forcefully. Emily's eyes went wide with terror and Nigel's jaw practically fell to the floor.

"How about you tell me why I have proofs of Marc Jacob's work. And while you're at it, would you please explain where the  _fuck_ are my sketches?!"

* * *

Miranda was having a rather taxing day. London fashion week had not even properly begun yet, but things were already starting to derail. Besides the number of dull— not to mention woefully inadequate— previews she had seen so far, her first assistant's incompetency was really grating on her nerves. A glitch in their flight seating arrangement, inadequate food, missing proofs and  _freesias_ in her hotel suite were just a couple of things Eliza had failed to remedy. She wondered how exactly the girl had remained under her employment for as long as she had; though she had a sneaking suspicion Emily Charlton had something to do with it. If she had to be completely honest with herself, however, none of her assistants had ever really excelled at their jobs, sadly. Emily had been more than adequate, that much she was willing to concede— though she was a thousand times better at being a Junior Editor. No, there had only been one that had even come close to the level of excellence Miranda Priestly required, but she had ruined it by walking away and throwing her phone in a Parisian fountain.

Miranda forcefully pushed any further thoughts of Andrea Sachs and her almost-excellence away from her mind. She had numerous proofs and previews to go through, and she had to concentrate. She poured herself a bit of bourbon from her suite's mini-bar before picking up a selection of portfolios her assistant had left her, making her way to the comfy couch in her sitting room.

There were many samples to go through. Luckily, she was graced with a good start; Prada and Chanel seemed adequate enough, and Dior certainly peaked her interest with a couple of new designs. It was a tiring and frustrating job at times, but Miranda couldn't imagine herself doing anything else. She relished in her quiet and critical analysis of the array of designs, a sense of purpose and even comfort driving her scathing critiques and calculated praises.

It was almost eleven at night when she finally reached for the last binder in the pile. If her list was correct, all that was left were the Marc Jacobs proofs. He had seemed rather inspired judging from the exclusive preliminary sketches he had shown her, so Miranda found herself actually looking forward to these. She rested the binder on her lap as she swirled the last of her bourbon in the glass.

Said glass slipped from her fingers and shattered into a million pieces scattered on the polished hardwood floors as soon as she opened the binder. Her own gasp of surprise startled her much more than the crystal littering the floor, shining like glitter. Miranda turned page after page in awe, unable to believe her eyes. A million questions raced through her mind. How? Who? Why? She knew her assistant had brought her all portfolios at once, but how the Hell was one of them Alexandra Saxton's? Even without the signed  _A.S._ at the bottom of every page Miranda would never be fooled. These were Saxtons all right, and originals by the look of them. However, they were clearly not meant to be future during the present Fashion Week— they were obviously not for the current season. Besides, quite a few of them looked unfinished. She got through to the last of the drawings, only to start again, unable to contain her astonishment. How was this possible? Without thinking, Miranda rose to her feet, her Prada pumps crunching crystal beneath them as they clicked through hardwood.

"Eliza!" she called uncharacteristically loudly. Honestly, where was that girl?

Impatient, the Editor marched furiously into her assistant's suite, separated from her own by only a door. Not even bothering to knock, she swung it open with unprecedented urgency, scaring her assistant to death as the latter all but screamed when her boss appeared. To her credit, Eliza composed herself remarkably quickly, yanking the earphones she wore and promptly greeting her superior with a strangled 'Yes, Miranda'.

"Where," Miranda waved the closed black binder in the air, Eliza's eyes following its movements in an almost comical fashion "did you get this?"

The girl blanched.

"I am  _so, so_ sorry, Miranda! I left my copies of the Jacobs proofs back in the office like an idiot, so I asked Emily for hers!"

Miranda blinked in confusion.

"The Jacobs proofs?" She had completely forgotten those were what she was supposed to have been looking at.

"Yeah" Eliza continued, not exactly understanding what was going on "I left mine in New York, so Emily let me go up to her room and get hers for you instead" she explained.

Two things registered in Miranda's brain at that moment. First, her useless assistant had absolutely no idea what the binder actually contained. For some reason, she was strangely reassured by that fact. Second, Emily had had Alexandra Saxton material in her possession and Miranda had not been informed. That fact made her particularly angry. Miranda Priestly was never left out of the loop. Not without dire consequences.

"I see. I dropped a glass in my sitting room; have housekeeping take care of it."

"Yes, Miranda" came the immediate reply.

"Oh, and Eliza? Where is Emily?"

"Uh, I think she and Nigel went out for drinks with a friend. I don't know where though. Would you like me to call her?"

"That won't be necessary. That's all."

Miranda went back to her bedroom and got ready for bed, even though she knew she would not rest until she got her answers. Eliza had clearly not been meant to give her that portfolio, of that she was certain. Now, why did Emily have it in the first place? More importantly, why had she neglected to tell her boss? The redhead was under strict rules to inform Miranda whenever Alexandra Saxton's material of any kind surfaced, and Miranda loathed having information withheld from her. Especially if it was this sensitive.

She huffed, half furious, half frustrated. Her answers would come first thing tomorrow. After all, what Miranda wants, Miranda gets. Anything else would be simply unacceptable.

* * *

Emily blanched, and almost immediately a film of sweat came over her pale forehead. She never in her life would have thought she would be at the receiving end of such a spectacular death glare from someone who wasn't known as the Devil in Prada; namely her boss. The fact that it was Andy Sachs doing the glaring only made it that more terrifying. It suddenly dawned on her that  _this_ was not really Andrea, at least not entirely. No, this scorching glare was coming from none other than Alexandra Saxton, the revered and elusive designer the fashion world was entranced by.

"Well?!"

The word stung like a hot poker, and for the first time since she had been a bumbling second assistant to the most powerful fashion figure in the world, Emily found herself stammering, choking helplessly on words that refused to leave her dry throat.

"It was my fault, Andy" Nigel interfered; worried his friend would choke to death on her own words if she attempted to speak. "Emily didn't even want to open it. I did it, but we didn't tell anyone. No one else knows" he helplessly tried to placate the brunette.

"I knew you were a gossip, Nigel, but  _really?_   _Snooping_?" she scoffed that poisonous scoff the other two were becoming painfully familiar with over a very short period of time.

"Moreover, the fact that you saw it still doesn't answer my first question" she continued in a voice like molten steel. "What am I doing with these Marc Jacobs proofs?!"

"Eliza" Emily finally mumbled, the realization crashing upon her like a tsunami. Oh, they were  _screwed._ At Andy's scathing inquisitory glare, she quickly continued. "She went to my room to get the proofs. She must have picked up the wrong binder."

"Who the  _Hell_ is Eliza?" Andy snapped.

Nigel and Emily shared a pained look before speaking in unison.

"Miranda's assistant."

Emily wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she saw a hint of fear behind the anger in Andy's boiling mocha brown eyes. The brunette's nostrils flared, and she gripped the end of the table tightly with one hand, while the other slapped the table in fury.

"And, let me take a  _wild_ guess here — she was supposed to deliver these" she indicated the proofs with disdain "to Miranda  _Fucking_ Priestly?!"

All Emily could do was nod.

"Is there any chance that Miranda won't look at them until morning at least?" Andy asked, even though deep down she already knew the answer to that question. Workaholic that she was, Miranda would not waste even a second to scrutinize everything her assistant delivered as soon as she got it. She was well aware that Miranda absolutely  _adored_ Alexandra Saxton's designs, so much so that she had  _asked,_ not required or even commissioned, she had asked her to design a prom dress for Caroline. Andy was no fool— she knew that the silver-haired Editor would recognize the drawings at once. She would then find out who Alexandra Saxton really was—the supposedly smart, fat second assistant who had deserted her in the middle of Paris Fashion Week. She would come to despise Alexandra Saxton just as much as she probably despised Andrea Sachs. Andy could see it now: Miranda Priestly ruining her designing career for daring to intrude upon her world, her domain, her empire.

"She has no idea it's you" Emily began tentatively "I mean she'll see Alexandra Saxton material, yes, but she still won't know who Saxton really is."

"It's only a matter of time, Emily" Andy retorted, her anger tainted by a tone of sadness.

"We'll never tell" Nigel swore, looking at the redhead, who nodded her confirmation.

"Won't you? Are you sure? If your jobs, your careers depended on it, you would keep your mouths shut?"

She was met with silence, and that was all she needed to hear. They wouldn't.

"As I thought" Andy finally said, her voice burning the other two. She stood to leave.

"You have my number" she looked at them both, her eyes now sad. "I want my drawings back by tomorrow. I don't want to hear it. Pry them out of Miranda Priestly's cold dead hands if you have to, for all I care."

She began to walk away, but turned back at the last second to face her stunned former coworkers.

" _That's all_."


	5. Chapter 5

Andy stumbled into the foyer or her London townhouse, tired. What was supposed to have been a casual outing with friends had rather quickly turned to disaster. She still couldn't wrap her head around the fact that Emily and Nigel now  _knew._ They  _knew_ she was Alexandra Saxton. They were in on one of the fashion world's most closely guarded secrets; the true identity of the almost mythical designer that had never shown her face. It was quite by accident, and, she had to admit, it was mostly her own fault. She was the one who had left the stupid binder. It was just her luck, or lack thereof, that it had to be picked up by someone so deeply entrenched within the Ice Queen's army of minions. Still, she convinced herself that Emily and Nigel had no business snooping. It was a meek defense, but it was all she had.

Her thoughts returned to the one who would probably destroy her designing career in the near future. Perhaps she was exaggerating, but really, could she expect anything else from Miranda Priestly? Once the Dragon Lady uncovered the truth, Alexandra Saxton's days would be numbered, and Andy Sachs would bear the brunt of the punishment for intruding into the Editor's empire. She seriously doubted Miranda would refrain from blacklisting her a second time. That recommendation for the  _Mirror_ had already been one of the biggest mind-fucks of Andy's life, but somehow she had the inkling that La Priestly would not be so willing to extend an olive branch this time. Especially because this time the betrayal ran far deeper than desertion— this was an all out invasion. Andy laughed to herself sardonically; she was probably one of the biggest hypocrites the world had known.  _Everybody wants to be us, Andrea._ She had denied it vehemently, but now here she was, front and center in this world she had never cared about before she met Miranda.

She pushed the thoughts of the silver-haired woman aside. It wouldn't do to think about her now. Andy needed to figure out what to do next to prepare for her impending doom. She sighed, annoyed. The expectation, the waiting for Miranda Priestly to run her over was just too much.

"Mum? Are you home?" a little voice interrupted her musings. Andy turned to see a brown-haired head peeing out of the door to the study. Her daughter's eyes were half-closed, heavy with sleep, her hair was mussed and messy, and Andy couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"Hi, honey. Why aren't you in bed? Where's Claire?"

Allie's little feet padded their way to her mother, encased in fluffy polka-dotted socks. Andy scooped her up in her arms, holding her tightly as the girl yawned her response.

"I heard you coming in. Claire's asleep in the TV room."

Andy nodded, carrying her daughter up the stairs to the master bedroom. It had become an unspoken tradition in the Sachs household— if Andy disturbed her daughter's slumber in any way, the little girl was allowed to share her mother's immense bed, no questions asked. Andy never even pretended to be bothered by it. She was, like her daughter, a snuggler after all. After setting Allie in bed, surrounded by every form of comfy pillow one could imagine and promising a quick return, Andy went back downstairs to check on her assistant.

She found the blonde snoozing on the plush chair in the TV room, as Allie had said. Her head was thrown back at an awkward angle that inevitably had her mouth wide open. She had her arms lazily draped over the armrests, hung on the sides of the chair. Her right leg was bent under her body, while her left was stretched out onto the sheepskin rug in front. Andy tried her hardest not to laugh— Claire was known for her exceptional elegance and her proficiency at being utterly professional, but few knew just how inelegant the she could be in her private moments. The brunette leaned down and wiped a streak of drool that had dried at the corner of the other woman's mouth, her chuckles now unavoidable.

"Wake up, sleepyhead" she said, giggling freely when Claire's eyes snapped open.

"Andy? Bugger, what time is it?" she mumbled, fruitlessly trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes, effectively smudging her make-up, which only made Andy giggle harder at the sight.

"It's late. C'mon, this chair will be hell on your back."

She gently but firmly guided the blonde upstairs, to the guestroom reserved for when the assistant moonlighted as a sitter. Claire sleepily sat on the bed, leaning over the headrest while Andy rummaged the en-suite bathroom for some make-up remover.

"Guestroom, huh? Again, a kid beats me to your bed" the blonde said playfully.

"You make that sound so much worse than it actually is" Andy responded with a humorous frown as she reappeared in the bedroom.

The brunette sat facing the blonde, tenderly wiping away at the smudges of eye-shadow, liner and mascara that obscured the other woman's features. Claire's eyes were closed as she hummed in appreciation, the only sound filling the serene silence between the two.

"So, how was it? Did you get it back?" Claire asked, her eyes still closed.

Andy could not stifle her pained sigh.

"No. I didn't. There's more, though. They  _know."_

Eyes snapped open at this new information. Claire gently grasped the hand that was still working on the spots of dark powder on her face and stilled it, her emerald gaze locked into Andy's eyes.

"Did you tell them, or did they see?" she asked.

"They  _saw._ It's just a matter of time now, and  _she_ will know." The brunette's voice trembled slightly, and Claire tightened her hold on her hand. She was probably the only person in the world who knew the full extent of Andy's issues with the Queen of Fashion. She didn't really understand it, but she did her best to be the best friend she could.

"We don't know that for certain. But even if she does, so what?" she tried, hesitant. "I've always told you Alex Saxton should have been known from the very start."

"You don't get it, Claire. She'll ruin me."

"And why on Earth would she? She loves your stuff."

Andy grimaced inwardly with the word, again sending her stupid brain in a cyclical mess of Miranda. She had to stop this.

"Paris was so long ago, Andy. I don't think she held a grudge, even then. She gave you a bleeding reference! Even if she suddenly decided to ruin you, what could she even do? It's not like you're affiliated with any publication, in any case."

"It doesn't matter. She could get my clothes out of stores like that" she snapped her fingers to demonstrate "and we both know that this world turns in whatever direction she makes it. Even if she began to hate Alexandra Saxton overnight, the world would follow. Hell, if she decided to make potato sacks a thing, they would become a thing."

"I think you're paranoid, love" Claire began, but stopped when Andy turned to look at her with a frustrated glance. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

The two remained silent, mulling things over. Andy quietly gathered the make-up remover and dirtied cotton pads she used, discarding of them appropriately. Claire just watched, thinking to herself that the brunette often carried an insurmountable and unnecessary weight on her shoulders.

"I think we should wait and see how things pan out" she tried "Whatever happens, I'll be there to help you."

Andy nodded. The foreseeable yet unforeseeable future was frightening. She would deal with it. Tomorrow. For now, all she wanted to do was curl up beside her little angel and sleep the rest of the night away.

"We'll talk about this in the morning" Claire said in understanding.

"Yeah. In the morning."

* * *

Emily silently wondered if it really counted as 'waking up' if she had never even gone to sleep in the first place. In any case, it was not even seven in the morning when she stepped into the lift that would take her directly to Miranda's suite. She knew the editor would be up— she had been summoned there for breakfast.

Breakfast was the last thing on either woman's minds, she was sure of it. She did not need to have Eliza's late night warning about Miranda knowing she had borrowed the 'Jacobs proofs' from the redhead, or her profuse apologies. The Brit knew the Jacobs proofs were probably very low on the Editor's list of priorities at the moment. She readied herself for the possibly torturous interrogation that would surely begin as soon as she crossed the door into Miranda's suite. Under her arm, she held the folder containing the bloody proofs. She silently wished for Hell and high water to befall Eliza, even though it wasn't entirely the assistant's fault— Emily had, after all, failed to notice the switch as well. She supposed Andy was also partly to blame; she had forgotten the stupid thing at the bakery. But maybe the one really at fault was whoever had phoned Andrea back at the bakery, making her incensed enough to leave such an important item behind in the first place.

Whoever the scapegoat turned out to be, Emily was certainly in for some sort of punishment for not informing Miranda she had Saxton material in her hands. Death glares and the loss of the Editor's trust seemed like the best-case scenario. Blacklisting or possibly murder comprised the worst. If Emily had to go down, she would make sure to drag Nigel with her—she wouldn't have known if the oaf hadn't opened the binder, and then she wouldn't need to lie to Miranda, and she would probably have been forgiven, at least in the long run. But no, now she knew, and no doubt Miranda knew she knew. There was nothing Emily could hide from the Editor— the woman had the uncanny, not to mention unnerving ability to spot lies from miles away. At times, the Brit earnestly wondered if her boss was adept at mind-reading.

The redhead braced herself as the lift stopped, the morose ding of a bell signaling her arrival. The doors slid open and just like that she was facing Miranda's door. Not finding any use in prolonging the torture, she tensely rapped the heavy oak with her knuckles, almost jumping out of her skin when Miranda's soft steely voice beckoned her to enter.

"Well, here goes" she muttered and passed the threshold, closing the door softly behind her.

Miranda was immediately visible, poised on the sitting room couch in that elegant manner of hers that screamed power and instilled fear. The way she was so casually sipping at her coffee just made it more frightening to Emily— was this the calm before the storm? The older woman had the Saxton binder front and center on the coffee table, innocuously placed amongst an impressive breakfast spread. There it sat, unopened, accusatory.

"Ah, there you are. I believe you have something for me". She extended her free hand toward the redhead, who dutifully bequeathed the Jacobs folder to her boss.

"Sit."

Emily did so, doing her best to calm her nerves. Truth was, there was a reason Miranda Priestly was known for her unpredictability. Because that's exactly what she was: unpredictable. Emily was pretty sure she had an idea of how this encounter was bound to end, but how exactly it got to that point was anybody's guess.

Miranda quietly sipped at her coffee as she set the Jacobs binder on her lap and began to lazily go through it, deliberately turning each page at a much slower pace than usual. Emily contained an exasperated huff and concentrated on not fidgeting. Her eyes were set not on her boss, but on Andy's binder. She briefly wondered if she could just take it and make a run for it— a short-lived and overall ludicrous idea. So all she could do was sit and wait, pointedly ignoring the food on the table. She might not be as partial to cheese cube diets any longer, but at the moment she did not feel hungry at all.

After what seemed like hours, Miranda finally closed the binder with a satisfied hum. She nonchalantly tossed it to the other end of the couch, leaning back and finally looking directly at Emily.

"Marc has once again sent acceptable work. Very interesting designs." She spoke in that soft tone that Emily knew meant certain death. At least professionally.

"You know what else is interesting, Emily?" she asked, her icy blue eyes pinning Emily to her seat. The redhead refused to take the bait and remained silent.

"I believe I asked you a question,  _Emily._ " The blue eyes sparkled. Whether it was with anger or a sadistic delight, Emily couldn't tell. Knowing Miranda, it was probably a lethal combination of the two.

"What else is interesting, Miranda?" Emily finally said.

"Oh, I think you will find this most intriguing." The Editor paused for effect, sipping her coffee once again. "You see, I had some samples to go through yesterday. As I opened what I expected to be the portfolio of my dear friend Mr. Jacobs, I encountered something completely different. Would you like to know what I found, Emily?"

"What did you find, Miranda?" the redhead asked, playing along, the urge to roll her eyes almost uncontrollable.

"I found sketches belonging to another designer altogether. Isn't it extraordinary?"

"Very strange, indeed" Emily droned.

"I agree. But do you know what is even more peculiar, Emily?"

"What, Miranda?"

"Well, the designs themselves are marvelous. But what is utterly bizarre is the fact that they belong to one designer in particular. Someone I've had my eye on for a long, long time. In fact, you were the one to introduce me to her work. Do you know who I'm referring to,  _Emily?_ "

The Brit refused to answer.

"Allow me to refresh your memory" Miranda said venomously. "The designs are from the one and only Alexandra Saxton. The enigmatic Alexandra Saxton, who has never accepted to be featured in any fashion publication,  _Runway_ included. Alexandra Saxton, who continuously baffles the world with her creations, yet refuses to show her face. And here I am, with a complete portfolio of her work for a future season. Now isn't this just riveting?"

"Riveting" Emily repeated.

"Yes. Imagine my surprise when I found out my assistant had unwittingly acquired these designs from my Junior Editor, who is supposed to  _inform me_ whenever new Saxton material surfaces. As you can presume, I was rather  _disappointed_ to be out of the loop." The Editor's tone seemed to make the temperature of the entire room drop dramatically, and Emily found herself to be shivering in her seat.

"Now" Miranda continued, unfazed by her employee's discomfort "I've decided to politely ask my Junior Editor how she happened upon these designs."

She took on final sip of her coffee and set the mug down on the table, looking at the redhead menacingly.

"So" she said in a deceptively sweet voice "how did you get your hands on these?"

Emily gulped rather audibly. How in the bloody Hell could she spin this? She had meant what she and Nigel had told Andy— they would not tell Miranda if they could help it. But, as the brunette had already surmised, that did not go so far as risking their careers for her anonymity, and Emily felt a pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach.

"Let me tell you what I think" Miranda interrupted before Emily could answer. "I think there would be no reason for you not to show me these designs if you had obtained them through the appropriate channels. Not informing me of their existence was deliberate. Now why would  _you,_ of all people, deliberately withhold such information, Emily, when it could very well help your  _so far_ promising career?"

Emily visibly blanched under Miranda's icy scrutiny. She knew the Editor would see right through her.

"It was an accident. The designs ended up with me on pure chance; you were never supposed to see them" she squeaked.

"That much was glaringly obvious" Miranda retorted, her voice with its usual venom. "Eliza clearly didn't know what sort of treasure she unwittingly carried into my room. But you have yet to explain how you managed to get them. I'm well aware you didn't meet with Alexandra Saxton's assistant or any of her known associates.  _Who_ , Emily, happened to give you these?"

"An acquaintance" Emily tried.

The Editor's blue eyes turned almost gray as they pierced Emily fiercely with their petrifying glare.

"Care to elaborate,  _Emily?_ "

Emily sighed in defeat. There was no way she'd be able to hide anything from Miranda. She cursed herself internally and began relaying the tale of how Poor Little Emily Charlton got her hands on the bloody Alexandra Saxton binder. She told her boss about her unexpected encounter with an old acquaintance and the switch of the binders that had resulted in the present confusion and accidental unveiling of the designer's identity, and how she hoped to return the Saxton portfolio today. Miranda remained silent throughout her tale, completely still, not even nodding. If not for the delicate rise and fall of the woman's chest, the redhead would have come to the conclusion that her boss had spontaneously turned to stone. No such luck, though.

"I see. And who, may I ask, was this 'acquaintance' of yours?"

Emily gulped audibly.

"Will you fire me if I refuse to tell you?" she tried, even though she already knew the answer.

"Emily, what kind of monster do you think I am? Of course not." Miranda said warmly, her eyes sparkling with… was that  _mirth_?!

The  _Twilight Zone_ theme instantly started playing in Emily's head in a continuous, deranged loop. Had she dropped down the rabbit hole or something? She bravely resisted the urge to pinch herself, though she wasn't entirely certain she wasn't asleep. Maybe Miranda had already gotten to her and she was in a coma?

"But then I'm afraid you won't be able to return these designs for another few days; I must have them copied for a future edition." Miranda finally added, her voice eerily playful.

" _What!?_ You can't!" Emily exploded, without thinking.

"Of course I can" the Editor's eyes were now stormy-gray, the mirth quickly replaced with triumph. "Didn't you meet with the designer? Weren't the designs passed over to my assistant, who then handed them to me? It seems awfully like our usual  _procedure_."

_Shit._  She had been had. Miranda Priestly had had her. Oh, God.

"So unless you tell me her real name, I think I'll be  _forced_ to publish these designs. Do you think your  _acquaintance_ would like that?"

For a nanosecond, Emily was relieved; this was the Miranda she knew, the Ice Queen, the Bitch in Heels and so forth. But as the Editor's words registered in her brain, the relief turned to anger rather quickly. How the Hell would she get out of this now? Taking a moment to consider the options, she could only assume Andy would not want the designs published without her consent, whereas Miranda getting wind of Alexandra Saxton's real identity was already regarded as an inevitable turn of events in the brunette's mind. The redhead silently asked Andy for forgiveness. She was backed into a corner.

"A  _name,_ Emily." Miranda drawled, impatient.

Emily sighed. This was  _not_ going to end well. Her answer came out in a defeated murmur.

"Andrea Sachs."


	6. Chapter 6

“That’s all.”

The dismissal was typical Miranda; it was almost like a signature. Emily had heard it countless times throughout her tenure at Runway magazine, and she had learned to gauge the Editor’s moods simply by paying special attention to the inflection carrying the two words. There was that bored whisper when Miranda simply could not be bothered with whatever was at hand. There was the ice cold snap when she was absolutely livid. There was the dry scoff when she was especially annoyed at somebody’s utter incompetence. There was the melodious, almost joyful tone— reserved for when the Devil in Prada was having a particularly devilish day. Miranda’s succinct parting words rang in many distinct tunes, and Emily knew them all. Or so she thought.

Never in her many years under La Priestly had she heard the usual brush-off come in the strangled gasp like the one that had just registered in her brain. All she could do was gawk in confusion. The bizarre irregularity had shaken her so much she had temporarily forgotten what the words actually meant. Her hesitation earned her one of Miranda’s best death glares, which sent the redhead on her way in a desperate scuttle out of the lavish suite.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Miranda’s tenuous grip on the Ice Queen façade crumbled completely. Her shoulders slumped momentarily before tensing up again in utter fury. Her eyes, retaining their angry grey tinge, rested accusingly on the Saxton binder on the table. Its contents, along with every other Saxton creation she had seen over the years flashed through her mind in lightning fast snapshots, down to the very first sketch Emily had brought from some art gallery seven years ago.

With a start, Miranda realized her hands shook with inexplicable, violent ire. Before she could stop to think, her half-empty coffee mug was hurled across the room, splashing a mocha-brown trail in its wake before colliding against the wall, shattering loudly upon impact.

The noise brought her first assistant to attention, her head peeking through the door, worried.

“Miranda! Are you…”

Eliza stopped in her tracks at the sight of her uncharacteristically disheveled boss. The Editor’s cheeks were flushed, her signature forelock wild on her forehead. The assistant gulped loudly as stormy-grey orbs skewered her with a pointed glare. Miranda’s hands were tightly curled into fists, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms— she looked like an Amazon ready for war. The Editor’s lips contracted in a scowl as she met her assistant’s frightened gaze.

“Get. Out.” She commanded in a murmur that carried its iciness across the room.

Eliza promptly made herself scarce, not even noticing, in her panic, the distinctive British accent to her boss’ whispered orders.

Miranda breathed heavily, her composure gone. She angrily picked the infamous binder from the table, turning each page in a relentless, furious pace. She could barely resist the urge to tear them into pieces.

That insufferable chit! How dare she? Her eyes bore into the beautiful sketches adorning every page. The designs that the ‘smart’, ‘fat’ girl had supposedly created mocked her. It couldn’t be. The naïve, innocent Midwestern girl who professed she didn’t care about fashion was the very designer Miranda had been utterly obsessed with for the past seven years. Fate seemed to enjoy irony at the worst of moments. She would have allowed herself to laugh at the absurdity if she wasn’t so enraged by the discovery. How dare she. How dare Andrea Sachs walk away from her and then waltz back into her domain like that? Hiding behind a pseudonym like the perfect little coward she was. The insignificant hypocrite didn’t even have the guts to face Miranda as herself.

She suppressed the uncharacteristic animalistic urge to throw some other inanimate object at the coffee-stained wall. It all made sense now. Or did it? The Caelestia collection. The absolute nerve of that girl! She ought to be satisfied with that little private barb, Miranda was sure of it. Cerulean Blue, for Christ’s sakes! And she had dressed her own daughters with the work of the legendary second assistant who had walked away from the Dragon Lady and lived to tell the tale. The world’s hottest name in fashion turned out to be Miranda Priestly’s biggest disappointment. Fate was fond of irony indeed, that fickle thing.

Running her hands through her iconic silver hair, Miranda worked to calm her breathing, reflecting upon the past. More specifically, on that bleak day eight years prior, when the most remarkable young woman she had ever known had abandoned her, disappearing like smoke amidst the blinding flashes of cameras. The Bitch in Heels would not have hesitated to blacklist the girl for life. Yet Miranda couldn’t bring herself to do it, because she had meant every word that she presumed had sent Andrea running. She did see a lot of herself in the brunette. The strife for excellence. The competence. The drive. The ambition, no, the thirst to succeed. She had spotted those qualities perhaps even before Andrea herself. She simply couldn’t build walls to stop someone destined for greatness— so she had given the girl a recommendation. Miranda Priestly’s seal of approval; bestowed upon her deserter.  
It hadn’t really stopped at the recommendation. Miranda had vouched for Andrea, in a way. The girl had better be doing a phenomenal job in her new career, after receiving such an endorsement. After all, it was the least she could do to repay Miranda the unimaginable favor. So, the week after Andrea had been hired, The New York Mirror was added to the list of publications awaiting Miranda at her desk every morning. The measure was merely to keep track of the girl’s advancement, of course. It wouldn’t do for Miranda Priestly to endorse a failure.

Therefore, the Fashion Queen had taken to peruse The Mirror daily, always in search of any little block of text that ended with the words ‘by Andrea Sachs’. She eventually found obits and other irrelevant pieces finished by the girl’s infantile shortening of her name, and she couldn’t help but scoff. Andrea could do better than that. Andrea deserved better than that; and Miranda was never one known to waste talent. She was halfway through phoning The Mirror’s Editor-in-Chief herself to have a few choice words with him before she realized what she was doing.

Why on Earth did she feel this need to interfere? It had only been a couple of weeks; it would take some more time for Andrea to rise through the ranks. It would probably take a couple of years at least until the girl had earned her stripes to be a noteworthy journalist. Andrea’s potential did not matter, it wouldn’t do to antagonize the girl’s boss into promoting her. Why did she even think Andrea deserved better in the first place? She should hate the girl. No, correct that, she did hate her. She hated her for seeing her moment of weakness, she hated her for fucking Christian Thomson, she hated her for leaving in Paris. Most of all, she hated her infuriating shit-eating grin, so real and so readily offered no matter how vicious La Priestly had been. No, Miranda would not interfere. It wouldn’t do, she rationalized.

Although she refrained herself from directing Andrea’s career, Miranda religiously scanned the pages of The Mirror with the assiduity of a scientist, dissecting its every section hoping to find more articles penned by the brunette. If Emily had noticed her boss’ sudden preference for the ‘rag’ that was the New York Mirror she had not commented on it. But then again, she wouldn’t dare.

An unexplainable glee allowed for the subtlest quirk of lips whenever an article caught Miranda’s attention. While not much better than the obits in terms of career advancement, Andrea brought something else to even the most tediously mundane filler articles she was saddled with as a cub reporter. Miranda could not help feeling proud. Not for the girl, of course, that was absurd; she still skewered with a monumental glare whoever even began to whisper the brunette’s name in her immediate vicinity. No, no, Miranda’s sense of satisfaction came from being, once again, right on the money— the girl did have potential. She would go far, even without Miranda’s help.

Then, after a few months and seemingly out of the blue, there came a day when there was no mention of ‘Andy Sachs’ anywhere in the paper. After inspecting every inch of that insipid little publication, Miranda had to come to the conclusion that her former assistant would not be gracing its pages today, and her mood deteriorated tremendously after that for whatever reason. Coincidentally, that was the day she fired her then-second-assistant for mentioning Andrea had been an utter idiot for leaving. Never mind that Miranda agreed in part with the observation, she had exclusive rights in referring to Andrea’s idiocy.

When Andrea’s by-line did not appear in any of The Mirror’s poorly laid-out pages for the second day, Miranda sent some poor girl in Accessories home with her belongings in a box. On the third, Serena was almost reduced to tears due to some trivial detail she missed for a photo shoot. By the fourth, the newly-appointed Junior Editor’s mantra of ‘I love my job, I love my job’ fell on death ears. On the fifth, Nigel seriously considered hiding under his desk until the end of the day. After a week of no writing by Andy Sachs whatsoever and five utterly incapable assistants later, Miranda was surprisingly tired of terrorizing her staff within an inch of their lives. So on a completely delirious whim, she called the Editor in Chief at The Mirror and demanded to know where in the bloody Hell was Andrea Sachs, only to be told that the girl had rendered her resignation almost three weeks prior.

Well. That wouldn’t stop Miranda Priestly. She had her not-entirely-inept First Assistant scan any publications in New York for an Andrea ‘Andy’ Sachs. Surely the girl had moved on to greener pastures; that Miranda would not condemn. So it came as a surprise when the actually-entirely-incompetent assistant failed to locate Andrea’s name anywhere in New York. In a fit of anger, perhaps even desperation, Miranda had her search high and low— even in insignificant publications in Ohio, to no avail. Andrea Sachs seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

The emptiness Miranda felt when her idiotic ex-assistant disappeared was inexplicable. For whatever reason, the little blurbs she looked forward to reading in The Mirror had apparently been holding her together a lot more than she had initially thought. She had kept the subscription, just in case, or so she kept telling herself. In the absence of new work, Miranda had carefully and methodically compiled everything ever published by ‘Andy’ Sachs and stuck it into a neat scrapbook of sorts. The mere notion that Miranda Priestly would engage in something as appallingly domestic as scrapbooking was unimaginable, yet there she was, occasionally flipping through it whenever the incompetence at the office reached new unbearable levels.

The apathy of those first few months without any hint of the brunette did not stop Miranda from working harder than ever. Yet, the emptiness inside prompted her to pick up the pieces of her fragile home life— before it was too late. She made it home to dinner at least four times a week, an effort that did not go unnoticed by her girls. They relished in having their mother back, but even then, something was off.  
It wasn’t until Emily Charlton dragged her to some secondary showing that Miranda felt somewhat complete again. There was no apathy when she gazed at the wonderful creations of Alexandra Saxton. There was excitement, and a drive that had been dormant for nearly a year since that fateful Paris Fashion Week. Miranda had found some semblance of purpose with that designer; there was real potential, there was something new, something fresh that she could work with. Only she had been blindsided by a woman who absolutely refused to make any sort of appearance. Of course Saxton’s reclusiveness had thrown the Queen of Fashion for a loop. But Miranda liked a challenge. She would feature Alexandra Saxton on Runway. And what Miranda wanted, Miranda got.

Seven years later, and still nothing. Until now. The anger she felt toward her former assistant gradually gave way to a diabolical glee as La Priestly composed herself. Oh, yes, now she knew. She knew who Alexandra Saxton was, and damn her if she wouldn’t use it to her full advantage. She would make Andrea Sachs regret ever turning her back on her, with her phone-throwing flair and naïve ideals. For too long the girl had hidden in the shadows of cowardice and anonymity. For far too long she had traipsed along the Ice Queen’s game without playing by the rules. And Miranda knew all about playing the game. Hell, she made the rules. She would not let Andrea Sachs out of her sight again, and she would have the insolent little chit right back where she belonged: under her Prada heel.

 

Andy was roused from her fretful slumber by the shrill ringing of her phone. Allie grumbled along with her mother as the duo awoke, stuffing her head under the pillow while Andy frantically reached for the offending apparatus on her bedside table. She answered without looking at the screen, mumbling a sleepy greeting. Almost immediately, however unintelligible, British-sounding screeches made her almost yank it away from her ear.

“Andrea!! Oh my bloody Hell, thank God you picked up, I swear shit is about to hit the fan, and I am so so sorry but she tricked me, and I promise I’ll kill that daft cow Eliza, everything’s gone to the dogs, but she tricked me saying she would publish them if I didn’t give her a name, and Nigel,, that wanker—”

“Emily? Slow down, for the love of God.”

Andy heard some huffing from the other end of the line. Emily had clearly learned some handy breathing exercises, as she was decidedly calmer once she spoke again.

“Miranda knows, Andy. I didn’t want to tell, I swear I didn’t. But she tricked me. She said she would copy and publish the sketches if I didn’t give her a name.”

Andy bristled, and tried her best to maintain her control. She couldn’t blame Emily too much, she supposed. Backing people into corners and giving them no choice was a classic Miranda move, after all. Still, she fought the uncomfortable feeling at the pit of her stomach.

“It’s fine, Emily. Well, actually, no, it isn’t fine, but deep down I knew she’d find out, sooner or later. I just hoped it would be later.”

There was a pause.

“You’re taking this remarkably well” Emily mumbled.

Andy scoffed. Well? Well?

“What other option do I have, Emily? It’s Miranda Fu…Freaking Priestly we’re talking about here. I just need my binder back, then I’ll worry about the Devil.”

This time the pause was longer. For a moment Andy wondered if Emily was still there— she glanced at the screen, noting that the call was still ongoing.

“Em? Still there?” she asked.

A sort of whimper was heard through the phone.

“You see… about your binder…”

Once her conversation with the redhead ended, Andrea was ready to punch a wall. She had worked very hard to keep her temper in check over the years, but once again, Miranda Priestly was seriously testing her resolve. Typical. She clicked her phone shut and placed it back on the table in a cold, calculated move, resisting the urge to throw it around the room, pull her hair out and scream. Evening her breathing expertly, she ran a hand through her long brunette tresses and shut her eyes. All she could do was wait. She pursed her lips in irritation and anger, careful not to show anything other than slight displeasure with the gesture.

“Mum? You OK?” a little voice asked from under the covers.

Andy’s cold façade promptly melted away as she pulled the duvet back so she could look into her daughter’s brown eyes. She smiled at the girl reassuringly.

“Yes, sweetie, don’t you worry. Just some work stuff. I’ll deal with it.”

Allie snuggled into her mother’s arms, seemingly content with the answer. Andy hugged her tightly, and the two were about to doze off again when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in” Andy beckoned.

A very disheveled Claire padded into the room, clutching her phone to her chest. Both Andy and Allie grinned at the sight— Claire’s blonde hair was sticking out everywhere, her boxer shorts were bunched up, and her shirt wrinkled. To top the look off, her pale face was marked with pink streaks, undoubtedly the folds of the pillows she was likely sleeping on until a short while ago. Her emerald eyes, however, were wide and completely alert. Andy knew something was wrong just by the look she was given when Claire passed the threshold.

“Hey, Allie, why don’t you go and get the coffee started? It’s all ready, you just need to turn it on.” She turned to her daughter, who immediately woke up at the prospect of fiddling with the fancy coffee maker. Glad to be useful, the little girl hopped of the bed and sauntered off to the kitchen.

Andy motioned for Claire to approach. The blonde walked over and sat herself at the foot of the bed, still clutching her phone tightly to her chest.

“I have Eliza Murray on.”

Eliza… Eliza… She had heard that name recently, Andy mused. Gauging her reaction, Claire clarified.

“Eliza, Miranda Priestly’s assistant.”

The pursed lips and cold façade were immediately put back into place. Claire was always in awe of her friend’s metamorphosis into her boss. In a mere instant, the brunette transformed herself from Andy to Alexandra, and the transformation always left the blonde a little bit breathless.

“And?” she asked, in a measured tone.

“Miranda demands to meet with Ahn-dray-uh Sachs. Tomorrow, Le Gavroche, at seven.”

Andy raised an eyebrow, and the purse of her lips became more pronounced.

“That won’t do. Apsley’s, eight.”

Claire nodded and relayed the information. There was clearly some resistance, but Andy couldn’t help but smirk when the blonde simply didn’t budge on the matter, effectively making Miranda’s assistant adjust to her schedule, not the other way around. It’s not that Andy couldn’t make it to the place and the time Miranda had stipulated; she could. But if she was forced to face the death squad, it would be on her own terms.

After confirming the inevitable showdown, Claire hung up and looked at Andy pensively.

“So. She knows.”

“She knows” Andy confirmed, a twitch in her eye barely betraying the underlying panic. Claire caressed it away.

“Any idea of what to expect when you meet her?”

Andy shook her head, and an odd, evil smirk curled her lips. The blonde pulled back, a bit surprised.

“Oh, Claire. I’m not meeting Miranda Priestly. Alexandra is.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a day early! Because I won't have an internet connection for the next three days... Woe is me. I wasn't completely happy with this chapter- must have rewritten it three times at least, but it is what it is. Enjoy!

 

                Andy took one final look in the floor-to-ceiling mirror housed in her closet, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her outfit. She gazed deep into her own eyes, methodically schooling her features into a cold, nonchalant façade. Over the years, she had worked very hard to perfect her Saxton demeanour, painstakingly working off the ticks that gave away her emotions. It had been an arduous task, since when she younger she was used to carrying her heart on her sleeve; but she did not back down from the challenge. It was what she was best at, after all— managing to accomplish the seemingly impossible.

                With an approving and very discreet curl of her lips, she turned around, checking for anything possibly amiss in the ensemble for the umpteenth time. Usually she had no doubt she looked more than simply presentable. But then again, she didn’t usually meet with Miranda Priestly. The whole thing had to be absolutely perfect.

                She never thought she’d get so used to it, this meticulous scrutiny of her own self. At first she avoided it; looking for flaws so rigorously, one was sure to find them. After a while, however, the habit grew on her, and she was surprised to realise she wasn’t looking for flaws and pointing them out— she was merely assuring that she presented the best possible version of herself.

                Of course, today wasn’t about presenting herself. Today was about standing up to her old boss— the vicious, unstoppable force of nature that to this day haunted her dreams at night. Andy had to be extremely careful; she hadn’t looked into the woman’s eyes in over eight years, and she knew they would be her potential downfall. The electrifying sapphire orbs would see right through her if she gave them the chance. Just seeing the woman capable of that petrifying gaze from a distance made her weak at the knees. She thought back to all the fashion shows where she had hid in the shadows with a massive DSLR slung around her neck, playing the part of a nameless photographer. Andy did have a talent with the lens, but a lot of the time she would find her focus homing in right on her ex-boss, the Ice Queen, the Devil in Prada, Miranda Priestly. Every time her lens found the woman, she would have to fight with all her might not to click the shutter. Most of the time, she was successful. Sometimes, however, she couldn’t help herself; she’d snap a picture, then look at it in the display for a long moment before deleting it.  She wasn’t so much of a masochist that she would keep mementos to her agony. No, her imagination took care of that just fine on its own.

                She had a mission today, and it was a much more important one than simply getting her sketches back. In the end, the sketches would not matter much when Miranda blacklisted her for life. Her primary goal for the dreadful encounter was basically to stick it to her old boss— more than the launch of a mobile into a Parisian fountain ever could. Back then, she was merely a naïve assistant. Today, she stood proudly on her own, tall enough to look Miranda Priestly in the eye as an equal. When Miranda inevitably dismissed her today, she would not scatter away in panic; she would give it out just as well as she took it.

                Satisfied with her appearance, Andy allowed herself a sigh. Although Miranda had specifically asked to meet Andrea Sachs, she needed the little bit of Alexandra to steel herself against the other woman. In her mind, they were almost two completely different people within herself; Alexandra was for business, Andy was for… Well, Andy was for Andy, and for Allie, and for Claire, occasionally. But just-Andy could never face Miranda on her own. Her heart simply could not take it. She had to use a bit of her Alexandra Saxton fire to counter the Ice Queen. She was determined to make Miranda see her for what she was now: the accomplished designer that enchanted the world, not some bumbling assistant in hideous polyester blends.

                She smiled to herself, taking in her outfit once more. It was miles away from cheap polyester, that was certain. Andy’s idea was to rattle the other woman with her choice, to possibly throw her off her game. If such a thing was even possible, that is. But then again, Andy had always been good at accomplishing the impossible, in any case.

                                                                                                                                                                                            

 

                At exactly a quarter to eight o’clock the next evening, Miranda arrived at Apsley’s, already annoyed beyond belief. She’d grant the insolent girl that little victory, conforming to Andrea’s schedule instead of making her abide by her own. That would certainly give the little coward a false sense of security. It didn’t mean she had to like it.

She carried the Saxton binder gracefully in her arm as the maître-d’ led her through the restaurant, to a considerably secluded booth. She quickly waved him off as she took her seat, placing the binder precisely at the centre of the table and resting her hands delicately atop it. The urge to tap her fingers in annoyance was unusually strong, but she disregarded it with the ease years of practice afforded her. Miranda Priestly did not fidget.

The Editor briefly ran through her prediction of how the encounter was likely to go, allowing for the tiniest of smirks to show. Andrea’s bout of courage would probably deflate as soon as she walked into the room. There was no possible way the girl would be able to face La Priestly head on. If she were, she would not have needed the insipid pseudonym to hide behind. Miranda almost laughed diabolically to herself. The Devil in Prada was feeling evil tonight.

The minutes passed frustratingly slowly, and Miranda’s annoyance grew exponentially. Obviously Andrea had forgotten how Miranda Time ran. No matter, Miranda would have her running precisely on schedule in no time. And she would make sure the girl didn’t never forgot it again.

When eight o’clock came and went, however, Miranda’s mood had rapidly deteriorated from mere annoyance to a pronounced displeasure. Momentarily forgetting to contain herself, she let her fingers tap the table rhythmically, an outlet for her ongoing frustration. She chose to believe the girl was just late, because the alternative simply meant that heads would roll. Miranda Priestly was not made to wait. Miranda Priestly did not get stood up. And Miranda Priestly did not fidget, she reminded herself once again, stopping the tapping at once. She remembered with disgust how she had completely lost her control the day before, hurling a mug across the room in a fit of fury like some madwoman. Not one of her brightest moments. Then again, Andrea Sachs always seemed to severely test her iron-clad control.

At precisely eleven minutes after eight, however, Miranda felt the atmosphere of the entire dining room change all of a sudden. The feeling was so foreign, yet so terribly familiar at the same time. For whatever reason, it sent a shiver down her spine. She recognized the feeling at once; but this was the first time she was not its instigator. She enjoyed provoking it at any functions, meetings, run-throughs or really she went — her presence making her subordinates tremble. This was eerily similar; the very air in the restaurant changed, and the reason was a domineering presence. Was Miranda going mad, or did the room get uncomfortably hot out of nowhere?

Then she saw her.

Like everyone else in the dining room, Miranda had _felt_ her presence before she even laid eyes on the woman, and instantly knew that, whoever she was, she was a force to be reckoned with. She walked with confidence and grace, clothed entirely in Prada from head to toe. Generally, Miranda would scoff at most people that attempted to pull off the blood red tapered skirt and fitted suit ensemble. However, this woman _certainly_ pulled it off— she bloody owned it. The Editor was completely mesmerised by the brunette, looking her up and down, when their eyes met. Not even all her years of practiced control could stop her audible gasp.

Andrea smirked inwardly in victory once her eyes met the icy depths of the Editor’s gaze. She was not entirely unaffected by those azure orbs, far from it. But Miranda had cracked first, obviously too distracted by her choice of outfit to even recognize her former assistant. She immediately knew the risk had been worth it. She confidently glided to the booth where Miranda sat, noticing the difficulty the older woman was having in schooling her features, and suppressed the smug satisfaction that threatened a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Miranda.” She drawled as she took her seat.

Miranda took a long moment to compose herself. The woman seated directly in front of her was clearly Andrea Sachs, but Miranda could not recognize that smart, fat girl anywhere in her features, in a manner of speaking. Physically, she was clearly the Andrea that had stranded her during Paris Fashion week, albeit years older. Her face had matured beautifully with age, but there was something missing. She analysed the brunette’s eyes— they were still the mocha brown she had tried so very hard to forget, but they were different; guarded, distant.

                With a start, the Editor realised she was looking into a mirror of sorts. The face in front of her was not the maladroit assistant she had known, it was a mask the likes of which Miranda was greatly familiar with. She had perfected her own with decades in the cutthroat environment of her industry. Conflicting feelings arose upon seeing it on Andrea’s delicate features. On one hand, she was thoroughly satisfied with herself; she had been right, as usual— there _was_ a great deal of herself in Andrea. On the other hand, however, a strange sadness lodged itself in her heart as she took in the woman’s schooled countenance. Gone was the vivaciousness, the brightness she had known, and she found that she missed them. Andrea’s face was simply not the same without the old vivacity the girl was known for.

                “Andrea” she drawled right back, finally collecting herself.

                Andy hoped to God her flinch wasn’t noticeable. For as much time as she spent preparing her defences against Miranda’s electrifying eyes, nothing could ever have prepared her for the older woman’s _voice._ The way she said her name still shook Andy to her core, she said it like a caress. A caress with sharp edges, but soft nonetheless. It sliced right through her like a hot knife through butter.

                The two women simply looked intently into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour. Miranda briefly wondered if the servers could sense the palpable tension emanating from their table and chose to steer right clear from it. A brave soul carrying what was likely a wine list had dared to approach, only to do a very awkward turnabout at the last second after a sidelong glare was sent their way. Once again, Miranda was surprised; she could never remember a time when she wasn’t the one doing the glaring. Besides her astonishment with the potency of the brunette’s glare, an odd smugness crept into her mind. It was very clear where Andrea drew her inspiration from.

                It was all a game, Miranda realised pretty quickly. She had to hand it to Andrea; the girl had certainly picked up a few tricks along her way. Changing the time and venue, making Miranda wait, refusing to speak first. And that _outfit._ Miranda ascertained that it was a not-so-subtle jab at the Devil in Prada moniker, as if Andrea wanted to show there was a new Devil in town. She certainly looked the part.

                The brunette’s efforts were admirable, she conceded. However, Miranda had been playing this game for a lot longer, and as much as she commended Andrea’s apparent advancement, she still wanted to make the girl suffer. She would show her who the real Devil was.

                “Well. You’ve certainly changed over the years.” She purred, noting the slight tremor that passed through the brunette’s body for only a split second before she regained control. _Ah. A chink in the armour, perhaps?_

                “You certainly haven’t.” Andrea enunciated precisely, measuring each word with a thoroughly practiced cadence. Her voice had matured just as her body had, Miranda noted. It was only a tad deeper, both with age and confidence. Andrea now spoke in a soft, low murmur that still carried itself through to the listener. Perhaps Andrea had learned more than she had given her credit for, after all.

                 The two women gazed at each other intently, each steadfastly refusing to break eye-contact, as if daring the other to continue to speak.

                “It looks as if you have been… busy since I last saw you.” Miranda finally said, in her usual acidic tone. She tauntingly ran her fingers over the Saxton binder, relishing in the way Andrea bristled. It was very subtle, and ordinary people probably would not have noticed. But then again, Miranda was not ordinary.

                “You could say that.” Andrea countered, keeping as tight a grip on her schooled features as she could.

                Miranda raised an eyebrow and opened the binder slowly, deliberately drawing out the effect of each movement. Her azure gaze carefully scanned each turned page methodically, sparing an occasional judgemental glance in Andrea’s direction, gauging whatever minimal reaction she could elicit. The girl had certainly perfected her poker face over the years, but not so much as to have her minute responses to the Editor’s taunts completely out of sight. Miranda had to supress a smirk of satisfaction herself at the discovery.

                “But what I can’t figure out…” she ran a manicured hand over the paper, tracing a particular design “is _why.”_

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.” Andrea responded. She tore her eyes away from Miranda’s hands, a task that was a lot more difficult than she had thought. She should have anticipated their alluring effect. The old Andy would have been positively squirming in her seat, Alexandra was thankfully a lot more composed.

                Miranda closed the binder in that same torturous slow pace with an air of finality. She sharpened her gaze on her former assistant.

                “Why are you _here,_ Andrea?”

                Andrea raised an eyebrow in a way that simply did not fit with the bubbly personality Miranda had known her to be in _Runway,_ yet the expression seemed to belong in the brunette’s features in a rather peculiar away. The Editor was momentarily blown away in confusion. Just _how much_ had Andrea changed?

                “That one should be easy to figure out” Andy said in a haughty tone that she could tell threw Miranda a little off guard. Just a little. “I’m here because you wanted to meet me. I’m here because I want my work back.”

                “So you don’t deny this is your work” Miranda retorted.

                Andy tried not to scoff in exasperation.

                “Would there be any point in denying it?” she retorted caustically.

                “You can’t blame me for my… surprise. _You,_ of all people, in _fashion,_ of all things. Whatever happened to journalism?”

                “Are _you,_ of all people, trying to make _small talk,_ of all things? Maybe you _have_ changed, Miranda.”

                The Editor sent her one of her best glares, and was more than a little miffed when it did not have the full desired effect. She could remember a time when such a look turned her then-assistant into a blubbering mess. That was not the case anymore; this new, ‘improved’ Andrea seemed immune, and Miranda quickly found that she did not like that one bit.

                “I reiterate; I am simply trying to ascertain _why._ Why fashion? Why Alexandra? Why _everything?”_ Miranda tried to lace her voice with a bit more venom, since it seemed to be the one thing to get under Andrea’s skin the most.

                “I don’t need to explain myself to you. You requested a meeting, you’ve met me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d really appreciate having my binder back with me.” Andrea was satisfied with herself for not buckling under Miranda’s glare. Her velvety yet acidic tone, however, was another matter altogether. She hoped that the other woman had not noticed the slight shiver that ran down her shoulders and back.

                Andrea looked at Miranda expectantly, and the Editor made a show of rolling her eyes as she slid the binder across the table. Andrea took it, immediately placing her hands over the leather cover in a protective gesture.

                “I suppose there is no guarantee that you have not made any copies of these.” She said in a dry, resigned tone. Miranda did not even have the decency to look affronted. Instead, she looked mildly impish.

                “And I don’t suppose my word is of any significance to you. Yet I will still give you my word that I have not made any copies.” The Editor quipped acerbically. Andrea’s grip on the binder loosened slightly.

                “Thank you.” She murmured. Neither women were entirely sure she meant it.

                Suddenly, however, Andrea noticed a disconcerting shift in the older woman’s gaze. It turned from slightly nonchalant and bored to wicked, with a hint of diabolical glee. The change made them go from the deep azure the brunette would never forget to a sinister stormy grey. She had to double check to make sure devilish horns were not sprouting from Miranda’s silver coif.

                “You’re quite welcome. I expect to publish any other forthcoming work in the near future, in any case.”

                Andrea carefully studied the other woman, unable to believe what she was hearing.

                “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Miranda.” She tried, testing the waters.

                “You always were remarkably slow on the uptake” the Editor replied maliciously. “What I mean is that your future work will be published on _Runway,_ of course.”

                Andrea tried her best to supress a disbelieving laugh. What the Hell was Miranda up to?

                “Pardon my French” she said sarcastically “but why the _fuck_ would I have _Runway_ publish any of my work?”

                Miranda seethed unexpectedly at Andrea’s use of the expletive. While she generally abhorred the use of such language in casual conversation, the brunette made it seem like the classiest and most elegant turn of phrase imaginable, and it sent an unfamiliar shiver down Miranda’s spine.

                “Seven years is an impressive length of time to maintain anonymity,” La Priestly purred, her voice deceptively soft, flowing like honey “it would be a shame to see all the effort thrown into keeping it gone to waste.” She finished, with a Machiavellian quirk of her lips.

                “You wouldn’t dare” Andrea bit back.

                “Wouldn’t I?” Miranda countered. “You should know, Andrea, what I would or wouldn’t do.”

                 The Queen of Fashion was overcome with a triumphant feeling once she saw Andrea’s grip tighten on the binder until her knuckles went white. The girl’s face still remained remarkably composed, but Miranda could tell she had gotten a hit. A good one. Her delight was only heightened once Andrea’s voice came in a bitter, stifling whisper.

                “What’s it to you? What do you have to gain from it?”

                “Oh, Andrea. Did you smack your pretty little head on the pavement? You’d have to be a blind idiot not to see the kind of benefits snagging Alexandra Saxton would bring for the magazine.” She remarked casually, satisfied when the girl’s nostrils flared in anger. She would tear down ever brick of Andrea’s walls, until there was nothing left.

                “Not to mention, you would also reap the rewards of great publicity. It _is Runway,_ after all. So really, you should be _thanking_ me.”

                For a few moments, all Andy could do was remember to breathe so she wouldn’t punch the table —or the person sitting across it — in fury. She was fully aware of her hands shaking with the effort, and she was fully aware Miranda was having _fun_ pushing her buttons. For the moment, she didn’t care; all she wanted to do was strangle the woman.

                “I don’t have a choice, do I?” she whispered.

                Miranda was very briefly taken aback at the burn the brunette’s words managed to carry. Still, this was her moment of glory, and she would not let it get in the way.

                “On the contrary, _Andrea._ You must remember that life is made of choices. And you have two: you can either accept my proposal and be featured on _Runway… exclusively;_ or you can stop hiding behind Alexandra Saxton like a coward. Of course, there’s no telling what _my_ choice would be should you _choose_ not to return to _Runway._ ”

                All of a sudden, Andy understood. Turn down _Runway,_ and Miranda would assuredly let her identity _slip,_ and subsequently blacklist her in the process; she had no doubt La Priestly had the power to do so. ‘Return’ to _Runway_ … It was an interesting choice of words, and a telling clue. Miranda was doing this for _revenge._ Andy had scorned the Dragon and walked away, only to dive back into her domain without playing by her rules. So now Miranda would _make her_ follow the rules of the game, having her back in her leash. It was so _unfair,_ and it was utterly demonic.

                “God, do you get off on it? Manipulation and blackmail? Are we all little pawns in your chess game, Miranda?”

                The brunette’s voice was laced with so much venom it caught Miranda by surprise. Quickly steeling her resolve, she eyed her former assistant with disdain.

                “You know full well how I do things, Andrea. At least you should. You’ve been gallivanting about this industry at will with no one to answer to. That is simply not how _this_ works. From now on, you answer to _me. Again”_ Miranda added that last jab out of pure spite, and was immediately rewarded with the fire she saw in Andrea’s eyes.

                Andrea was ready to bolt. The simple fact that Miranda specified she would have to answer to her _again_ confirmed her suspicions. It _was_ revenge, and that made Andy nearly burst at the seams. She knew Miranda was a manipulative bitch, she _knew_ the Dragon Lady could be disdainfully petty. So why did it hurt so much? What had she expected?

                “Is this _just_ because of Alexandra? I’m not an idiot, Miranda. I know you love her _stuff. My stuff._ I dressed your daughters, for Christ’s sakes.” She was satisfied when Miranda bristled at the word ‘stuff’. Good. “Is this because left you stranded in Paris? Is _that_ it? You let me walk away once, so you won’t let it happen again?”

                “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d proceed in the same manner had Alexandra been anyone else. The fact that _you_ are the one behind it is just… A fortunate bonus.”

                Miranda thought she would feel overwhelming triumph once she saw the beginnings of tears form in Andrea’s doe brown eyes, but to her bewilderment, that was not the case. The brunette’s face remained stony and collected; but her eyes were now watery, and Miranda had to fight a wild and completely out-of-character urge to reach out and wipe the tears away before they fell. Instead of doing something so utterly preposterous, she trained her poisonous gaze on the brunette.

                “I’ll even be kind enough to give you time to _think_ about it, Andrea. You have until the end of Fashion Week to inform me of your… _decision,_ whatever it may be.”

                “God, revenge must be sweet indeed” Andrea started suddenly, her tone dry and incisive. “You’re just doing this because I went over your head. How did it feel, Miranda? How did it feel when you found out the _smart, fat_ assistant that left you stranded in Paris was the one behind all this? You think I don’t know how many times you called over the years? How _Runway,_ how _you_ practically begged for me to publish anything in the magazine. And now the only way you can get it is with your _modus operandi,_ all of this underhanded, backstabbing _bullshit”_ The silver-haired woman looked almost appalled at Andrea’s tirade, but the brunette kept on, her voice corrosive as she went.

                “You know, I saw you at all my shows. I was there, behind the scenes, and you can’t fool me. I _know_ you _loved my stuff._ You think I didn’t see you, perched at the edge of your seat? You think I didn’t see you at _Caelestia_ and all the others? You think I don’t know how many times you sent Emily after Claire, demanding, bribing and threatening to meet with me? I saw _everything._ Honestly, I’ve never seen you look so _human_ other than in my shows.” She added acerbically, thoroughly satisfied at Miranda’s horrified expression. She could swear she heard the cracks in the ice breaking away.

                “How _dare_ you….!”

                “No, how _dare_ you.” Andy bit back, not allowing Miranda to interrupt her. She was on a rampage, and she _would_ get the last word. “Don’t worry, _Ms. Priestly,_ I’ll give you an answer by the end of the week. But until then… Good-bye.” She began to get up.

                “Don’t you dare walk away.” Miranda uttered through gritted teeth.

                Andrea sent her a glare that even the Bitch in Heels would admit was rather phenomenal; it stung like a red-hot poker, and petrified the Editor in place in surprise and terror.

                “Watch me.” The brunette simply said as she glided away.

                Miranda could not muster another word. What the Hell had just happened? Dinner was forgotten; she was not hungry in the least. She felt baffled and somewhat cheated; how had the obstinate ex-assistant managed to make her feel like she lost, when she had had the upper hand? As she watched the girl saunter away she realised she was hardly a girl. Then it came crashing down upon her. She had not seen Andrea yet. The girl— no, the _woman_ who had just unleashed a fiery tirade upon her was not merely a matured version of the assistant. No, this woman with the measured mask lacked the beaming smile and vivaciousness that made Andrea what she was. This woman was Alexandra Saxton.

               

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2AM on a Monday... As good a time to update as any, I reckon. I have to apologise; not much happens in this one, but I needed it to string things along. Who knows, maybe I'll post the next one early. MAYBE.

               

 

                “Wake up.”

                Andy grumbled in her sleep and pawed at the hand that was trying to shake her into the world of the living. She could feel the blood thumping in her head like a hammer; her eyes stung and her throat was hoarse. Mildly aware of a sharp source of light from behind her lids, she buried her head further into the pillow. _They’re not taking me now,_ she grumbled.

                “Mum! Wake up!”

                Andy shot up through the drowsy haze in flash, immediately regretting the decision once she began seeing spots from behind her lids, an acute dizziness enveloping her along with strong nausea. She tried opening her eyes, but the light blinded her.

                “Hey, mum! It’s almost noon, you gotta get outta bed. Claire made pancakes!” Allie tittered about, hopping on the bed and bouncing, eager to get the day started. Andy attempted a half-smile at the child, but found that her muscles were stiff.

                Before she could respond to her daughter’s demands, however, another presence made itself known in the room. Andy flinched once she recognized the tone; seemingly calm and nonchalant, but carrying an underlying reprieve she just knew was not meant for the little girl.

                “Allie, dear, why don’t you go get started on your pancakes before they get cold? I’ll help your mother up.”

                Allie eyed the two women curiously and raised a quizzical eyebrow before relenting and hopping off, sparing her mother a chaste kiss on the cheek as she went. Andy’s muscles seemed to be gradually shedding their stiffness, so she saw the girl out with a forced smile. She heard the soft footsteps of her assistant making their way to the bed. Expecting a reprimand, she did not even bother to open her eyes fully before facing her discipliner.      

                What she did not expect was a strong whack at the side of her head that made her see stars, aggravating her headache considerably.

                “Ouch! What was that for?” she yelped, holding her throbbing head in her hands. She finally managed to crack one eye open, only to see her assistant dressed for the day in one of her custom pantsuits, arms crossed over her chest and a murderous expression on her face.

                “That’s for raiding the bloody liquor cabinet. How dare you. Your daughter thinks you have a cold because I couldn’t bring myself to tell her you were just plastered last night, but we _agreed,_ Andy, that she’d never see you like that again!”

                Andy immediately froze in place, flashes of her stumbles up the stairs flooding her mind. She could vaguely remember breaking a glass or two. Guilt washed over her like a cold-shower, and she hid her face in her hands in shame.

                “Oh, god, did she—”

                “She woke when you left the study. I told her to go back to bed instead of coming to your room, but she’s a bright kid. She knows something was off.”

                The brunette groaned and supressed a few angry tears. The night before had simply been too stressful; the meeting with Miranda had left her with more pent-up tension than she could ever remember. Since she couldn’t just go and throttle the woman herself — she was certain there were at least a couple of laws against that — the company of a bottle of bourbon seemed like the best next alternative. And it had worked, in a way.

                “I’m sorry.” She mumbled, meaning it. Claire released a resigned sigh and unceremoniously slumped next to Andy on the bed.

                “I had Mary take care of the mess you left in the study. Allie didn’t see it.”

                Andy took the blonde’s hand in her own, lacing their fingers together softly. She shot the other woman a grateful glance, which was acknowledged by Claire with a reassuring nod.

                “Just promise you’ll never do it again.” She scolded.

                “I promise” Andy said truthfully.

                The two women sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating the situation. Claire was the first one to speak.

                “So I guess I don’t need to ask how the... meeting went, right?”

                Andy visibly cringed at the memory of the previous night. Miranda had been a backstabbing, manipulative, grade-A bitch, but then again… What else had she expected? Certainly not a bout of compassion or _God forbid,_ any other human emotion. She relayed the specifics of their encounter to Claire, who bristled and flushed red with anger.

                “What the in the bloody He-”

                “Claire, just don’t. It’s done.”

                The blonde fumed.

                “What _right_ does she think she has? Can’t you see this? She wants you back in her claws, I swear to bloody God, that _woman!_ How dare she-”

                “She’s Miranda Fucking Priestly, Claire. Of course she dared” Andy retorted sarcastically.

                Claire shot her boss, her friend, a bewildered look, seething.

                “She didn’t give you a choice! That bitch!”

                Suddenly, Andy’s expression turned dark, and the blonde gulped audibly at the sudden change. She thought the brunette would fly off the handle, but was thrown in for a loop when she saw a shark-like grin tug at the other woman’s lips in a diabolical fashion.

                “A-Andy?” she stammered, for once legitimately afraid.

                “Oh, no, Claire. She did give me a choice” Andy said, her voice dark, yet amused. “Several, in fact. And I intend to pick just the right one… She thinks she got the last laugh. We’ll see. I’m going to stick it to Miranda Priestly.”

                “Andy?” Claire tried; she’d never seen her friend look so… evil. “Something tells me you’re going to go a bit… extreme with this. Think about what you’re doing.”

                Andy took a moment to flash a more familiar grin toward the blonde, stroking her cheek affectionately.

                “Oh Claire, I have. And, just so you know, I’m going thermonuclear.”

                Claire gulped.

 

 

               

 

                “The Saxton show’s been cancelled.” Said a deep, exotically accented voice.

                “What!??” Emily blanched, immediately nauseous at the news. What the Hell had happened?

                “It wasn’t _cancelled,_ Serena, don’t give her a heart attack” Nigel scolded, although he was also on edge, as was anyone else that had anything to do with Fashion in London at the moment. “It was rescheduled at the last minute. Which, honestly, isn’t much better.”

                An official statement from the Saxton studios had made its way through the grapevine stating that the much-awaited showing from the Fashion World’s beloved and elusive Alexandra would not be taking place as scheduled. No reason given, no explanation whatsoever, only a change of time and venue to the last possible timeslot that could still be considered within Fashion Week. Of course, the whole thing turned into a logistic nightmare, and there were rumours circulating, ranging from cursed couture to the untimely death of the mysterious designer. Nigel and Emily, however, knew better. They both knew Miranda had met with Andrea, and the two could only imagine what had transpired between the two. Nigel didn’t think the death of Alexandra was so far-fetched; he and Emily had attempted to contact Andy numerous times since they had learned of the meeting between the two forces of nature that were Alexandra and Miranda, to no avail.

                “Bloody Hell. Does Miranda know?” Emily asked.

                “I don’t think so. She’s been in an absolutely terrific mood all morning” Serena relayed, shrugging her elegant shoulders.

                “Why would she be in a terrific mood? Are you sure we’re talking about Miranda?” the redhead retorted. In all her years working with the Ice Queen, she could count on one hand the number of times Miranda had been in a ‘good’ mood.

                “Apparently Anna ran into some problems, so she’s missed her first deadline in twelve years” Nigel said helpfully.

                Emily’s eyes widened while Serena’s jaw actually snapped open in surprise.

                “Well, _that_ would certainly put her in a good mood. What kind of problems?” Emily couldn’t help but ask, legitimately curious. Anna Wintour’s infamy was rivalled only by Miranda’s, and both women were notorious for their overblown demands for perfection. Missing a deadline was huge, especially between those two, especially for any special edition during any Fashion Week. No doubt Miranda would draw out Anna’s suffering for years to come over the mishap.

                “You know as well as I do everyone at _Vogue_ has NDA’s, as do we. It must have been a doozy to set them back so close to the deadline.” Nigel explained.

                “It doesn’t matter; as soon as Miranda finds out the Saxton show has been cancelled…”

                “Rescheduled.”

                “Whatever. As soon as she finds out, it’ll be a shitstorm, I’m telling you.”

                Nigel and Emily shared a knowing glance that went unnoticed by the blonde Brazilian. They had not discussed Alexandra Saxton’s real identity with anyone other than themselves, and so far, they seemed to be the only ones who knew. Besides Miranda, of course. Emily was dying to know what had happened, but Andy had remained unreachable. This cancelling… Or rescheduling of the Saxton showing could not mean anything good. Nigel turned to his redheaded friend once Serena left the room to solve some crisis with a particularly moody model.

                “Any news from Andy?”

                Emily shook her head in the negative, her shoulders slumping.

                “None whatsoever. She won’t take my calls.” She paused for a second before lowering her voice to a barely-audible whisper “You don’t think Miranda killed her, do you?”

                “Don’t be ridiculous” Nigel retorted, though he did not seem entirely confident. He knew Miranda wouldn’t go so far as to murder someone. But Andy’s silence was disconcerting nonetheless.

                “I’m pretty sure Miranda gave her the binder back. At least Eliza saw no sign of it.” Emily pondered.

                “Do you really think Miranda just handed it back, no questions asked? Come on, Emily. She obviously pulled something that’s making Six duck and cover, mark my words.”

                “How can you be so sure?” Emily asked without thinking.

                Nigel’s tone grew dark, and his eyes glazed over momentarily.

                “I don’t know, Emily, previous experience, maybe?” he snapped, effectively silencing the redhead.

                Miranda’s stunt during Paris Fashion Week nearly eight years prior was still an extremely sore topic with the Art Director. It didn’t matter that the James Holt venture had gone belly-up barely two years after its inception. Miranda had gone behind his back, and that still hurt. He had eventually forgiven her for unwittingly saving him from the failure that the enterprise had been, but he would never forget how the Queen of Fashion had moved him about like a pawn in a game of chess. Nigel’s career had basically stilled; he had been stuck in a limbo in the Art Department for way too long. It had taken a lot of Emily’s pleading not to tender his resignation at a few points. The redhead had quite unintentionally become his new pet-project: he had groomed her to take his place as Art Director, a move that he honestly believed was ready to happen. It needed, however, Miranda’s approval, and he doubted it had any chance of occurring any time soon.

                “Whatever Miranda did, it was enough to make Six go through the nightmare that is rescheduling a showing this late in the game. Everyone is beside themselves, and Andy’s too cautious to do that nilly-willy” he reasoned.

                “It is rather strange” Emily conceded “I mean, does she think people will just stick around for the show when it’s so late?”

                “It’s Alexandra Saxton; of course they will.”

                “Point taken. Should we tell Miranda?”

                “About what? The showing? I’m surprised she hasn’t heard of it by now. She’ll get wind of it sooner or later. For now I’d much rather let her enjoy Anna’s failure.” Nigel said with a roll of his eyes. Truth was, he had no wish to be in the Dragon’s path once she found out the show had been cancelled. Rescheduled. Miranda had been Alexandra Saxton’s number one fan; that is, before she knew the designer was in fact her former assistant.

                When Emily had come running into Nigel’s suite after her breakfast meeting with Miranda, he had prepared himself for the worst. He was not in the least surprised at Miranda’s dirty tactics to get a name out of the Junior Editor. Emily was certain that the Bitch in Heels would do anything to destroy anything related to Alexandra Saxton after finding out, but Nigel wasn’t so sure. Sure, Miranda had considerable power, maybe even enough to thoroughly mess things up for Andy, but at what cost? Alexandra Saxton was the apple of the Fashion World’s eye, it would be insane to go to war for pettiness’ sake.

               

 

                “You are completely, certifiably, utterly and irrevocably insane.”

                Andrea took her assistant’s growl in stride. True, she had sprung up the impossible on Claire’s lap, but if anyone could handle it, it was the blonde. Still, the fact that she had managed it was nothing short of a miracle. She simply grinned in response.

                “Honestly. There’s a rumour going around that you’ve died. People are going crazy.” The blonde remarked as she flipped her ringing phone open with a flick of the wrist.

                “Let them” Andy shrugged her shoulders. Yes, the rescheduling of her much-awaited show was a lot more than unconventional: it was basically a disaster, logistics-wise. Alexandra certainly would not be making any new friends with the ballsy, and, she had to admit, rather presumptuous move. Still, it was a necessary evil; and she knew that it would all be worth it by the end of Fashion Week. As Claire barked into her mobile angrily, Andy busied herself with some fabric samples; all part of her meticulous planning for Operation Flipping the Bird to Miranda Priestly. She cringed; it definitely needed a better name.

                She turned when Claire poked at her shoulder.

                “I’ve got Miranda Priestly on the line for Andrea Sachs. _Immediately.”_ The blonde rolled her eyes, an action that was becoming increasingly common whenever _Runway_ ’s Editor-in-Chief was concerned.

                _Ah, speak of the Devil._

                “Tell her Andrea isn’t available. She may talk to Alexandra if she’d like.” Andy responded, seemingly nonchalant, but with an evil gleam in her eyes.

                Claire eyed her curiously, but relayed the message. The brunette could tell that the line went completely silent for a few long moments. When Miranda finally responded, Claire simply nodded and handed the phone to her boss, with a look that clearly said ‘it’s your funeral’.    

                “Saxton Studios, how may I help you?” Andy used her brightest, cheeriest tone imaginable. She didn’t know exactly how, but she could tell Miranda was fuming over the phone.

                “Alexandra Saxton, I presume” the Editor intoned, with her usual sarcasm-laden soft voice.

                “Mrs. Priestly, I presume” Andy dared, knowing the designation would only incense Miranda further.

                “What is this I hear about the cancellation of your next show?” The fashion maven continued, not completely unfazed. Andy grinned evilly.

                “I’m not sure where you get your information from, Ms. Priestly, but the show has been merely rescheduled.”

                “And the reason for the change would be...?”

                “None of your business.” Andy retorted sharply, which drew an astonished gasp from the other end of the line and a horrified expression from her assistant. No doubt both women were appalled by her rudeness; for different reasons, but still appalled.

                “I see. And what of my _offer?_ ” Miranda said icily.

                “I’ll have an answer by the end of Fashion Week, as discussed.”

                “I don’t like to be kept waiting, An-… _Alexandra_.”

                Andy shivered. Somehow the way Miranda enunciated her pseudonym sent the same tingles through her abdomen as her pronunciation of her real name. She pushed them down before answering in the bubbliest manner she could manage.

                “Oh, yes, I know how a glacial pace thrills you.”

                There was no answer from the other end. Andy felt ecstatic.

                “Good talking to you, _Ms. Priestly.”_

She clicked the phone shut and handed it back to Claire, who was still frozen with an expression of pure terror on her face.

                “What?” Andy asked playfully.

                “You’re bloody insane! Insane!”

               


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Monday, another chapter! This one was absolute Hell to write; I was plagued by writer's block and just real life being annoying at the worst of times. Still, here it is!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

 

                London Fashion Week seemed to whizz by in a chaotic blur. Miranda suffered through dreadful shows and was generally uninterested by even the most inspired ones. For the first time in her entire career, she could not wait for Fashion Week to be over. Well, not entirely over. Before it all ended, she desperately wanted to see what Alexandra Saxton, or rather, _Andrea,_ had in store. More importantly, she wanted an answer from the brunette, who had religiously avoided her since their last phone conversation.

                Miranda was familiar with the behaviour. Andrea was stalling for as long as possible, because she simply couldn’t get over the fact that Miranda had won. She smiled inwardly; soon she’d have the girl back in her grasp, and on a tight leash. There was no way she would let go this time. Oddly enough, her subconscious seemed more excited to have Andrea around than to publish Saxton material exclusively. She immediately supressed the thought. Honestly, the very idea.

                The changes she saw in the brunette when she last met her were still disconcerting, however. Miranda couldn’t help but think she had not yet seen Andrea, at least not as she remembered her. She had seen plenty of Alexandra Saxton, perhaps more than anyone in the world to date. They were the same woman, obviously, but Miranda knew there was a pronounced difference. She had _seen_ it. Andrea’s eyes were baleful and full of emotion behind them, their brown shade flickered with specks of gold. Alexandra’s eyes seemed to be impossibly darker, like coffee, and they were full of fire. The Editor had been caught completely off guard when she first gazed into them. Andrea also smiled, that full, beaming smile that lit up a room. Alexandra did not smile. Miranda could guess that she smirked, maybe even developed a full-blown shark-like, malicious grin on occasion, and she knew her guess would be accurate. The first time she looked at Alexandra, it was like she was looking directly into a mirror, and that frightened her like nothing before.

                Miranda had meant every word she had said to Andrea in Paris. But when she saw the proof of her observations in the flesh, the satisfaction of being right once again washed over extremely quickly. In its place grew an all-consuming feeling of dread, and, for whatever reason, grief. Miranda knew exactly how Alexandra Saxton behaved because Andrea had clearly drawn inspiration from her. She supposed she should feel flattered, but somehow all she felt was guilt, as if she was personally responsible for crushing Andrea and sculpting the Saxton persona out of what remained. As much as she knew of the extent of Andrea’s ambition, she would never be the same without her bubbly personality and innocent naïveté. And Miranda supposed it was her fault Alexandra had been born in the first place.

                She quickly shrugged such thoughts away. It would not do to wallow in… guilt? Miranda wasn’t exactly sure, but nonetheless, it wasn’t important. Not when her week was about to end in the greatest way possible: with the ‘capture’ of the elusive Alexandra Saxton for _Runway._ There was no other way about it.

                Miranda took one moment for a last once-over in the elegant full-length mirror in her suite. She didn’t exactly need it; she knew she looked picture perfect. It just so happened that what looked picture perfect to the laity didn’t necessarily meet the standards set by the Queen of Fashion. And that’s precisely what she looked like— a Queen. It was deliberate, just as Andrea had tried to show there was a new Devil in town, Miranda would show the insolent girl exactly who ran things. The Evil Queen.

                She allowed herself an amused smirk. Evil indeed, she thought. The sharp, stark, yet classic cut of her custom Versace gown made her look like a fairy tale villain. A modern, devastatingly beautiful, but no less terrifying villain. It seemed appropriate. Her smirk became subtly more pronounced. It was time to face Snow White.

 

               

                Although the Saxton showing had been rescheduled at the last possible minute, it was still one of the highlights of Fashion Week. Andrea— or Alexandra, had stepped on a great many toes, and quite a few disgruntled patrons were there at the very least out of curiosity; what had prompted the unexpected delay? A couple of annoyed designers were present too; Miranda had endured quite a few minutes of Donatella’s heavily accented rant. The woman felt personally slighted— she had been the one supposed to ‘close’ London Fashion Week. Having Alexandra Saxton simply squeezing in her showing right after felt like ‘ _un affronto personale’_. Miranda smiled when appropriate, but didn’t really pay much attention to the Italian. She was looking for someone who had not dared to show her face in a couple of days.

                When she finally spotted Anna Wintour, she briefly thought of commending the woman for not looking desperately embarrassed. First deadline missed in over twelve years, that was big. And, for once, Miranda would gloat. With some tact and discretion, of course, but she could not resist the opportunity. _She_ had _never_ missed a deadline in twenty years. Not even when she had just first started, when _Runway_ was nothing but a drowning venture many thought was destined to fail. No, like a phoenix, it had risen from the ashes, and it was by Miranda’s hand. She had _earned_ the right to gloat.

                Anna seemed to feel her coming her way before Miranda had even deigned to speak with her. A tired smile was her greeting, and Miranda could not help but shoot her a snarky grin in response. She’d better be tired. She’d better be working her bob cut off her head to try to minimise the pandemonium that came with a missed deadline.

                “Anna.”

                “Miranda.”

                “How lovely to finally see you. I take it you’ve been rather… _busy._ ”

                To Anna’s credit, she showed no reaction to Miranda’s none-too-subtle jab.

                “Oh yes. I’d say you know all about it, but you really don’t, do you, Miranda?”

                Miranda’s smirk exposed a bit of real, vicious glee.

                “No, Anna, I know nothing about missed deadlines. How aggravating it must be.”

                “Quite aggravating, I must say. Not an experience I’d like to repeat anytime soon. But it was worth it.”

                “Do enlighten me, Anna _darling,_ what makes a missed deadline worth it?”

                Oddly enough, Anna’s eyes held a hint of delight. It threw Miranda off a little, but she could only suppose it was an effect of whatever tranquilizer her rival was surely on to keep herself together.

                “Well, Miranda, I’d much rather have a spectacular edition than an ordinary one. Wouldn’t you?”

                What was the woman _on_?

                “Naturally, _darling,_ but usually I manage such a feat within my deadlines.”

                Miranda had no time to wonder why on Earth Anna seemed to remain unfazed because the lights began to dim and flicker, calling all the patrons to their respective seats. Not bothering to say anything further to the _Vogue_ Editor, she quietly retired to her seat in the front row, between a visibly anxious Emily and a rather tense Nigel. Neither greeted her beyond a nod of acknowledgement, choosing instead to keep their gazes onto the runway ahead. Miranda sat with her usual aristocratic grace, ignoring the tension radiating from her employees.

                The lights flickered for a few moments longer before dimming completely. The runway lights flashed on, and a deep, reverberating bass was heard throughout the room. Projected letters flickered onto the wall, scrambling themselves before being rearranged in order, revealing the name of the collection in bright, white font. _Vicesima._

                As soon as the first model walked onto the runway, Miranda was entranced. She usually was at every Saxton show, but she thought it would be different now that she knew who was behind it all. She had been wrong. This collection had a noticeably more classic feel to it, yet it felt new and refreshing, something that Alexandra Saxton seemed to accomplish with remarkable ease. Once again, the Queen of Fashion was perched at the edge of her seat, the only thing keeping her frustration at bay once a model disappeared backstage was the appearance of another. Each outfit was unique in its own right, and each was fascinating. It was so easy to forget that the woman responsible for such mesmerising creations was none other than ‘Andy’ Sachs. Andy ‘Aw-Shucks’ Sachs, the smart, fat girl who aspired to be a journalist. Miranda had a sudden and uncharacteristic urge to thank the Heavens or fate for whoever was ultimately responsible for dropping that binder on her lap. She would have never figured it out otherwise.

                From the corner of her eye, she noticed that the tension between Nigel and Emily seemed to dissipate with every model that strutted in. She was not surprised; they were obviously just as enthralled as she was. Not that Miranda could blame them. The whole crowd was hypnotised. She was willing to bet that even Donatella had momentarily forsaken her Italian temper, but she would not waste her time to check; she was too busy paying very close attention to the wonderful creations parading on the runway.

                Miranda could not help feeling bereft as the last model made her way back. It was all over much too soon, she thought.

                Except the lights began flickering once again, and the music began to build. Everyone present began to look around in confusion. It all seemed to indicate the show was not over, yet the runway was empty.

                “What’s going on?” Miranda heard Emily question. Nigel shrugged his shoulders and began to open his mouth, but he was interrupted when models began to materialize _en masse_. Each and every one of them, in quick succession, marching like an army.

                Every single model wore exactly the same outfit, a suit-like number that exposed their long legs, along with shiny black pumps that clicked menacingly on the runway. But that wasn’t the most peculiar thing about it all. All of them had a strip of black material over their eyes, as if mimicking a censor strip. Miranda actually gasped once she realised they were all wearing wigs, all turned into brunettes with long brown tresses framing their faces. A shiver ran down the Editor’s spine, and she could not keep her hands from trembling. The dread that settled in the pit of her stomach was almost unbearable.

                The models filed in, positioning themselves so they outlined the entirety of the runway. They stopped and faced the audience with their hidden eyes, striking the exact same pose: shoulders back, heads high, legs crossed at the ankles where they stood and hands casually resting in their pockets. The whole group remained absolutely still as the music built up.

                Suddenly, the music stopped, and all the lights seemed to go out completely. However, a name in a bright yellow font flashed on the wall where the runway stemmed from. _Alexandra Saxton._

                The name flickered on the dark space for only a few moments. What was projected next nearly made Miranda faint. Her heart palpitated, and she could swear sweat began to gather on her forehead. She balled her hands into tight fists and attempted to control her breathing, doing her best to ignore the strangled gasps of surprise that came from her employees.

                Where there was a name, now there was a projection of a magazine cover. More specifically, a _Vogue_ cover, featuring no one other than Andrea Sachs, or, as the world knew her, Alexandra Saxton. The photo showed her in the exact same position as the one the models held on the runway, down to the censor strip over her eyes. Words appeared over the picture, and Miranda was acutely aware of Anna Wintour’s smug smile, even though she refused to look directly at the woman.

 

_Alexandra Saxton: The Woman Behind the Myth_

_Brought by Vogue_

 

The music began to build once again, and with it Miranda’s despair. She could not believe what was happening. What was _about_ to happen. The shock was simply too much to bear. Never in her entire life had she wished to simply disappear into oblivion. The realisation crashed upon her with a painful jolt. She had miscalculated. She had made a huge mistake. She had been bested at her own game.

                The lights flickered madly along with the build-up of the music, and the Queen of Fashion was certain she was about to have a panic attack. Suddenly, it all stopped— the lights ceased, and so did the music. An ethereal voice filled the room.

                “Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time, Alexandra Saxton!”

                Then one of the models— the one right in front of Miranda— gingerly began to move while all the rest remained as still as stone. She gracefully removed the black strip of cloth from her eyes — her deep, mocha-brown, bright with triumph eyes — and beamed an expertly calculated grin towards the crowd. She turned and waved to the entire room, which erupted in applause and disbelieving cheers.

                Andrea waved once more before turning right to Miranda. The Editor was glued to her seat, her nails digging into her own palms. Her azure eyes were astonished, shocked, incredulous. There was nothing Miranda could have possibly done to prevent the whimper that escaped her lips once she looked into those brown orbs and read the message they sent in utter triumph.

                _Watch me,_ they said.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! By the way, if any of you guys are interested, a friend of mine (the kind soul who convinces me to post even though I'm not 100% satisfied with what I write) made the Vogue cover of this chapter. It's on my Tumblr if you want to check it out (link on my profile). Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaah! JUST made it! Sorry if this is coming later than usual; my computer thought it would be a lovely time to go completely crazy. I lost pretty much all my documents, including this chapter. I took it to the store for data recovery, but they weren't able to get it done today, so I just rewrote this entire thing. It has not been reviewed as well as I would have liked, so please forgive any mistakes you happen to encounter. Thank you for taking the time to read, I hope you all are enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I'll shut up now!

 

 

 

                _Alexandra Saxton: The Woman Behind the Myth_

Vogue’s _very own Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour had the wonderful opportunity to sit down with the one and only Alexandra Saxton for an exclusive, first-of-its-kind interview. This unprecedented development right during this year’s London Fashion Week caught us all by surprise. Alexandra Saxton has had a meteoric rise since her inception seven years ago, and has so far held her own with even the most established, well-known fashion houses in the world. Follow along her first interview and discover the wonder that is Alexandra!_

_Anna Wintour: Well, this is certainly exciting. It’s so nice to put a face_ _— and such a lovely face! to the name we have heard over and over for the past few years. Let me please thank you again for this interview—what a development!_

_Alexandra Saxton: My pleasure; it was a bit sudden, but I’m happy to be here._

_AW: Sudden indeed. Now, you know we’re going to absolutely grill you here, but you can’t blame us; the unveiling of Alexandra Saxton is big news!_

_AS: Oh, God. Hit me, I’m ready_ _— I hope!_

_AW: Well, for starters; your name. Alexandra Saxton; it is an alias, correct?_

_AS: Correct._

_AW: What would your real name be? In other words, what should we call you?_

_AS: Haha, Alexandra is just fine. My real name is Andrea, but when it comes to fashion it’s always Alexandra— it’s like I developed another personality!_

_AW: That is so interesting! Well, since we’re talking fashion, we’ll stick to Alexandra— the name that absolutely everybody knows you by. Young lady, you’re a phenomenon, are you aware of that?_

_AS: (laughs) I had an inkling…_

_AW: Should be more than that by now. The world loves your clothes! But why the secrecy?_

_AS: Well… It’s kind of a funny story. When I started, I didn’t think anyone would like my designs, and I had a couple of… Eh, acquaintances in the fashion industry, so I didn’t want to go over their heads. Plus, I had another career at the time; I didn’t want any overlap._

_AW: It is beyond my why you would think that no one would ‘like’ your designs… I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all obsessed!_

_AS: Yeah, that was such a surprise. I had no idea it would turn into this, this massive, world-wide, wonderful thing._

_AW: You said you had ‘acquaintances’ in the fashion industry; as well as another career. Can you explain?_

_AS: Oh, wow, that’s a long story. Before I started designing like crazy, I was a journalist. Well, not quite a journalist, more like a cub reporter, I had just started when I realised that path was wrong for me. I was enamoured with words, but I was swept off my feet by clothes!_

_AW: And your fashion friends…?_

_AS: Oh, right! After I graduated from university, I was desperate to find a job in New York. You know the drill; wholesome mid-western girl trying her luck in the big city_ _— it was brutal. I sent resumes everywhere, with no luck. Then, finally, I scored an interview at a magazine; a fashion magazine, to work as an assistant. It really wasn’t what I wanted— I had no interest in fashion back then — but I was desperate._

_AW: Not interested in fashion? You? That’s hard to imagine._

_AS: (laughs) I know, I know… If someone back then had told me I’d be where I am now, I’d have them committed! But, here I am._

_AW: Here you are! Now, you know you have to indulge us here; which magazine did you interview for? Certainly not_ Vogue; _I don’t think I could live with myself if I had let you go!_

 _AS: No, not_ Vogue, _don’t worry! I interviewed for a junior assistant position to the Editor of_ Runway _._

_AW: Oh, my God. You mean you worked for Miranda Priestly?_

_AS: Yes, Ma’am. She conducted the interview herself and ended up hiring me. Well, actually, she dismissed me first— I made a pretty bad first impression— but for whatever reason called me back and the rest is history._

_AW: Sorry, I’m still processing that you worked for Miranda. She has quite a reputation with her treatment of her assistants… So rare to see one alive!_

_AS: (laughs) Well, she does occasionally let them live! Though she didn’t exactly let me go; I quit._

_AW: Not surprising, dear, it’s a gruelling existence, or so my sources tell me!_

_AS: Well, it was tough. But then again, I suppose it’s how it should be: you and Miranda have reputations due to your demand for excellence, so it really is sink or swim._

_AW: That is true. (laughs) You know you’re making me miss my first deadline in twelve years, young lady?_

_AS: Whoops. Sorry!_

_AW: No apology necessary, dear. I bet Miranda is just green with en—_

                Miranda crumpled the pages of that blasted magazine in fury after reading that damn interview for the umpteenth time, not bothering to finish it. She worked to calm her breathing as she glanced at the muted television in her room. It seemed to be stuck on a continuous Alexandra Saxton loop, showing the reveal, the subsequent luncheon and reception— both of which Miranda had deliberately refused to attend, choosing to barricade herself in her hotel suite instead, with the company of the finest malt whisky money could buy. The news were currently showing Andrea getting into a black car, swamped by the paparazzi who followed the vehicle for miles even. It looked like something out of a movie.

                “Miranda, are you still there?” called a voice from the speakerphone.

                “Where else would I be, Stanley?” she retorted curtly, quickly composing herself.

                “Sorry, it sounded like I had lost you for a bit there.” Stanley said good-naturedly. Miranda had to hand it to him, he was taking all of this mess remarkably well. Certainly better than she was, because there was no chance in hell he would drown his sorrows and humiliation with the exquisite taste of a couple of decades’ worth of Macallan. It was his loss, really— it did the job wonderfully.

                Stanley Walsh was ‘Irv 2.0’, as Nigel liked to call him. Miranda understood the nickname, but refused to associate one with the other, simply because Stanley had something Irv’s little brain was incapable of accomplishing: he had vision. More importantly, he didn’t meddle with her budget willy-nilly, and that was a great first step in guaranteeing at least a civil working relationship with the Fashion Queen. He understood the decisions and the risks Miranda had to take to keep her magazine running, and was a lot more capable at the helm of Elias-Clarke than Irv Ravitz had ever been.

                “But as I was saying, I’d like to keep on top of things. Advertisers and investors are going kind of crazy, but…”

                “Get to the point, Stanley. How bad is it?” she interrupted, running her fingers through her hair, mussing it up completely, and, for once, not caring one bit.

                “Not too bad, I mean, nobody’s dropped anything yet. But _Vogue’s_ going to have a fantastic couple of weeks, that’s for sure.”

                “She missed a deadline, Stanley. Surely that’s got to count for something.”

                “Well, ordinarily it would, but they’ve unveiled Alexandra Saxton. The faceless woman who everyone has tried to publish, including us, and they got to her first. That’s huge, their sales are through the roof.”

                “If they’ve got her now, there’s nothing we can do, is there?” Miranda was _tired._ She wanted to go back to New York and bury herself under covers that had an impossibly high thread-count and never emerge again. Bested by her former assistant and Anna Wintour on the same day. Surely that was enough of an excuse to take her first sick day in years?

                “Not exactly. From what I’ve heard, it’s a one-time thing— she’s not exclusively with _Vogue,_ if you get my drift.”

                “Yes, Stanley, I _get your drift”_ Miranda said, rolling her eyes. She had to hand it to Andrea; the girl had certainly learned how to play hardball. She had revealed herself on her own terms, and rather spectacularly. To add insult to injury, she had done it through her bitterest rival. If it hadn’t been so humiliating, Miranda would have been amazed. To make matters worse, the insolent girl had brought light to her previous employment at _Runway,_ basically letting the whole world know that Miranda Priestly had let a genius slip through her fingertips. That the girl didn’t know Gucci from Gabbana when she first started was of little consequence; Miranda had had her, and now there she was in Anna Wintour’s pages.

                “So we need to regroup. We need to get her on the page, whatever the cost.” Stanley continued, obviously entirely oblivious to Miranda’s plight.

                “Stanley, pardon me, but are you out of your mind? How do you suppose we do that? Please enlighten me, because last I heard— or read, rather— Alexandra Saxton wants absolutely nothing to do with _Runway.” Correction,_ Miranda thought to herself, _she wants absolutely nothing to do with me._ But there was no way in Hell she would tell Stanley that the reason for Andrea’s surprise unveiling had been her ultimatum. She had not taken leave of her senses. Yet.

                “Miranda, we may be able to work with this. She was your assistant, maybe she went to _Vogue_ so it doesn’t seem like she had an advantage, y’know? Or at least that’s what we can make it look like.”

                “Well, it’s great that you once again have an infallible plan to save the day, Stanley. But it won’t work. I have a reputation, as you’re well aware. She knew exactly what she was doing when she went to Anna.” Miranda downed the last of the Macallan in her glass and seriously considered getting another. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot. She should have just returned the bloody binder. Really, it was Eliza’s fault. Or Emily’s. Anybody but Miranda’s. She cringed with how pathetic that sounded even to her own ears.

                “Sure, but we can make it water under the bridge. I know it must irk you on a personal level, but we _must_ get her on _Runway._ Mend fences, bury the hatchet, kiss and make up— are you there Miranda?”

                “Yes” Miranda gasped out, that last gulp whisky burning her throat after she had choked on it as Stanley kept on talking.

                “Anyhow, why don’t you stay in London for another week or so? Win her over, it shouldn’t be terribly hard, right? You’re her biggest fan, after all.”

                Oh, how she wished glares could be effective via telephone. Stanley had no way of knowing how what he was asking for was so far-fetched. Or impossible, rather.

                “Not a chance Stanley. Everyone has tried, what makes you think I’d get her, especially now?”

                There was a pause on the phone.

                “Well, you _are_ Miranda Priestly, aren’t you?”

                That she was. But now, for the first time in her life, she wished she could be someone else. Like Anna Wintour, perhaps, who had seized and conquered the prize she had coveted for over seven years.

                “That won’t be any of any use. Need I remind you of how much we tried to lure her to _Runway_ over the years? It has never worked, what makes you think she’d come now?”

                “All I’m saying is that it would be worth a try. The reunion of an assistant turned legendary designer and the Queen of Fashion? Come on, Miranda. Anna’s scooped the reveal, but we can still get Alexandra if we play our cards right.”

                Miranda rolled her eyes once more. Stanley was annoyingly persistent. He and Irv had that in common. But Stanley at least had brains, not to mention an ego that wasn’t so disproportionately massive. Still, she was sure he wouldn’t be too happy with her if he ever got wind of how exactly _Vogue_ had gotten their scoop.

                “I’ll see what I can do, Stanley.” She finally said, defeated. There was no way she could get Andrea on _Runway_ now. So she’d make an effort, go back to New York, and probably go on a long vacation with the girls to somewhere exotic and, most importantly, remote. She laughed inwardly at herself— no way was that happening either. Miranda Priestly did not cower. She glanced at her TV screen; a throng of paparazzi had set up camp at the ‘residence of Alexandra Saxton’, or so it read at the strip at the bottom of the screen. She remembered how she was subjected to the same ordeal, countless times in her career. For whatever reason she hoped Andrea could deal with it, because if she couldn’t, she’d be in for a whole lot of pain.

                Ending the call with Stanley, Miranda finally decided to indulge in a little more whisky. She would need it to do what she presumably did best: plotting. Not that it had gone over that well the last time she tried it. But she was Miranda Priestly, and what Miranda wants, Miranda gets. Sighing, she wondered just how inaccurate that was in reality. It was impossible; there was no way Andrea would even consider being published on _Runway._ It served Miranda right; she was so absorbed on reclaiming the brunette to her side that she completely forgot about the game for a crucial moment. In that moment, Andrea had gone and moved three steps ahead, blindsiding Miranda and the rest of the world.

                Miranda physically shivered when she remembered Andrea’s expression on the runway as she rid herself of that strip of cloth concealing her eyes. She might as well have flipped the bird to Miranda, her eyes held such triumph, shouting clear victory with their gleam. _Watch me. I won._

                Truth be told, at that moment Miranda wished to throttle the woman. Andrea would never do that; Andrea squirmed under her gaze alone. But once again she had to force herself to understand that she was dealing with Alexandra, not Andrea. It was another variable altogether, and if she were to be honest, it scared her a little. Alexandra seemed to be a disconcerting mix of Andrea’s burning ambition with Miranda’s maliciousness, and the combination was nothing if not startling, not to mention terrifying.

                Miranda shook herself away from her thoughts, glancing one last time over the television. No doubt Anna Wintour would laugh at this for years to come; Miranda Priestly grovelling for a designer to be published on her magazine after the latter had been revealed by _Vogue._ Thank God Anna didn’t know just how much Miranda had screwed up, though she supposed there was nothing impeding Andrea from sharing that juicy tidbit with the world.

                She suddenly paused. Andrea _hadn’t_ shared that little tidbit. _Why?_ If Miranda were in her shoes, she would have gone out of her way to humiliate her adversary to the point of no return. She would have recounted, in great detail, just how a heavy-handed Editor basically forced an ultimatum upon her, only to completely blindside her opponent, tipping the scales in her favour entirely.

                The realisation hit her with unprecedented force, and all of a sudden, Miranda Priestly was giggling in her hotel room. She’d blame the giggles on the Macallan later, but right now she was laughing at her own blindness. She knew what she would do if she were in Andrea’s shoes. But she wasn’t. There was still hope, because Andrea had not just irrevocably tipped the scales to her advantage. No, no, she had merely balanced them. There was still hope. And Miranda lived on hope..

               


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Monday, another chapter! Well, I'm about one hour into my Monday, but's it's a Monday nonetheless. Thank you for leaving comments/kudos, they are greatly appreciated :) Enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

                A light knock on the heavy wood preceded a tentative voice.

                “Allie? Honey, can I please come in?”

                “Go’way!”

                Andy bit her tongue on the other side of the door, her heart clenching at the sniffles she heard from within the room. The past few days had been awful; she had never felt so wretched as a parent. It didn’t help at all that she was the cause of her daughter’s current mood.

                The door wasn’t locked; it never was, but she would not enter her daughter’s room until she had been invited in. There was no need to make the little girl trust her less than she already did.

                “I’m not going to come in until you let me. Please let me come in soon.”

                No answer.

                “I love you.”

                Andy tried not to let the obstinate silence from the room get to her too much. Allie was just six years old, and she didn’t expect the little girl to take to the changes to their lives too easily. But if she had to be completely honest with herself, she had not expected her daughter’s temper to show like it had. She supressed a sigh; Allie was too much like her mother for her own good.

                “I’m going to leave you alone for a little while. But you can talk to me whenever you want, OK?”

                There was still no answer from the other side, so Andy made her way to the study downstairs, resigned. She narrowed her eyes in frustration at the heavy curtains that were fully drawn there; shielding the occupants of the townhouse from the onslaught of camera flashes that had not relented in days. Andy was not an idiot; she had known there would be a lot of publicity with the unveiling of Alexandra Saxton. But with London Fashion Week pretty much over, she had hoped that the press would be a little more subdued. She certainly hadn’t expected to be followed in her car all the way to her own home in a high-speed chase that had paparazzi in motorbikes flanking her speeding vehicle. The reporters were so vicious Allie had not been able to even go to school for the past few days, which was the source of the awful mood the child was presently in. To make matters worse, the school had kindly ‘pointed out’ that they were not properly prepared to deal with press of such magnitude; they were just the neighbourhood school after all. The underlying message was clearly to seek Allie’s schooling elsewhere if the press problems persisted at that level.

                Andy had expected to be the main target for the frantic tabloid hounds. She had mentally prepared herself for it, and she thought she was ready. But nothing could have prepared her for the way the reporters harassed a six-year-old child, and that disgusted her like nothing before. She could fully understand, finally, how protective Miranda was of the twins, especially regarding the assault of the press. Seeing reporters and photographers stoop so low made her blood boil.

                With a passive groan, Andy angrily stomped to the bar in the study, making quick work of a healthy dose of bourbon before filling her glass again and sinking into a comfy chair. Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, she slowly began to savour the immediate effects of the alcohol, grateful for the brief break from reality.

                She didn’t hear Claire entering the study, nor did she see the frown of disapproval marring the blonde’s delicate features. Andy only noticed her assistant’s presence when she felt the brush of fingers against her own, pulling the glass away from her hands. She held back a grimace at the action.

                “We’ve discussed this, Andrea.”

                “Oh, it’s Andrea, is it? Must be serious.”

                Andy had not yet opened her eyes, so she did not see the flash of hurt in Claire’s expression. The blonde schooled her voice before speaking again.

                “Yes, it’s serious. I don’t want to lock the liquor cabinet again.” Claire warned.

                Andy snorted. “Well, we remember what happened last time you locked it. There are plenty of bars around.”

                “Oh, yes, I can’t wait to see the headlines. Alexandra Saxton, fashion marvel and a drunk.”

                Andy finally snapped her eyes open, scowling at the blonde.

                “Now that was uncalled for.” She bit back, her voice venomous and hurt at the same time.

                Claire looked sheepish for a moment, before walking to the sink behind the bar and unceremoniously dumping the expensive amber liquid down the drain.

                “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She said, though she didn’t sound particularly apologetic.

                Andy made no effort to answer, choosing instead to look toward the window in silent contemplation, before remembering the thick curtains. She sulked, letting out an annoyed grunt. She vaguely heard Claire shuffling about behind the bar, undoubtedly preparing some water with lime as a peace offering.

                Just as she thought, a high glass of sparkling water with ice and a thick-cut slice of lime was delicately placed on the coffee table in front of her. Claire silently took a seat on the settee facing the brunette, sipping on some water herself. Andy finally gave in and took the offered glass, taking one large gulp. She held back another grimace as the water made its way down her throat, and attempted a humourless laugh.

                “Definitely not the same.” She quipped dejectedly.

                Claire simply shrugged her shoulders and took a healthy swig.

                “Make an effort. For your daughter’s sake if not for mine.”

                “My daughter hates me.” Andy scoffed.

                Claire just rolled her eyes, not dignifying such a notion with an answer. Andy noticed the eye-roll. She fiddled with the slice of fruit on the rim of her glass, distracting herself from the discussion.

                “She does. She said so.” She mumbled at last.

                “She’s six years old.”

                “She said she hated me and told me to go away.” The brunette insisted, focusing on not allowing the tears that brimmed at her eyes to roll down her cheeks.

                “She’s upset, Andy. Trust me, she’ll come around.”

                The brunette swirled the ice in her glass around in contemplative silence. It took her a few minutes to finally speak again.

                “She’s never stayed this mad at me for this long.”

                Claire gave an audible sigh. She wouldn’t say it out loud because she knew Andy was perfectly aware of the fact, but Allie and her mother had _a lot_ in common, including their temper.

                “True, but she’s never had something this big happen. I mean, all of this” she gestured with her glass toward the drawn curtains that sheltered them from the nosy photographers outside “has _got_ to be a total mindfuck for her. It’ll take time for her to get used to it, but she will come around. She’s not the first kid in the world to have a celebrity parent, for Pete’s sake.”

                “And those who do always turn out excellent, don’t they?” Andy retorted sadly.

                “A lot of them do. You’re a good mother and she’s a good kid. You’ll both be fine.”

                Andy shrugged, and Claire could see her friend was having a hard time keeping her tears at bay. She wished Andy would let herself go more often; she had built numerous walls around herself over the years they had known each other, and it wasn’t always for the better. Sure, they came in handy when she was fully Alexandra Saxton, but Claire sometimes missed Andy Sachs. She didn’t want to have Alexandra deal with her and Allie; the little girl especially didn’t deserve that.

                 “You know who’s a celebrity with kids that turned out somewhat normal?” Claire prodded.

                Andy raised an inquisitive eyebrow; the only sign that she was even remotely interested in the conversation, as she kept staring at the rapidly melting ice in her glass. Taking it as good a sign as any to continue, Claire spoke in a soft tone before taking a drink once again.

                “Miranda Priestly.”

                That at least made Andy laugh with a little more heart into it, but she clearly wasn’t taking the blonde seriously.

                “Give me a break, Claire. Those two girls were demons. Need I remind you of the Harry Potter incident?"

                Claire supressed a laugh. Indeed, the stories Andy had regarding the Priestly twins didn’t do the girls much favour in terms of vouching for their sanity.

                “Come on, they could have been a lot worse. They’re going to university and all. One of them is actually coming to the London College of Fashion, from what I hear.”

                Andy’s eyes widened.

                “Really? How in the Hell do you know that?”

                Claire simply winked.

                “One hears things.”

                Andy scoffed, though this time her tone carried a bit of humour.

                “Just what we all need; another Priestly in Fashion. How much do you want to bet that in a few years the Editor torch will be passed from mother to daughter?” Andy laughed.

                “The Priestly Dynasty of _Runway_ Magazine. Whew.”

                The two women shared a laugh before falling once again into silence. Andy was still pensive.

                “Even if the twins are ‘normal’ now, it wasn’t exactly an easy road” she finally spoke, her voice suddenly heavy. “I can’t tell you how many appointments I scheduled with their child therapist when I worked for Miranda.”

                Claire raised an eyebrow, choosing not to comment on the fact that what Andy had just told her was more than likely very private information.

                “So? Therapy’s not necessarily bad, Andy. It can be very helpful. You should look into it, for you and for Allie.”

                Andy shot her assistant and friend a nasty look, but gave up the fight as it just wasn’t worth it.

                “You calling me crazy, lady?” she asked with a little jest instead.

                “Not crazy. You just have a lot on your shoulders. It would be good to have someone to talk to.”

                Andy snorted ungracefully. “Isn’t that what you’re here for, Wonder Woman?” she winked at her assistant, who could not resist rolling her eyes once again.

                “I mean someone who’s not involved, Andy. It would do you a lot of good, and could even help Allie cope with the press and all. There’s a reason Miranda’s kids had therapy.”

                “You mean a reason besides being Miranda Priestly’s kids? Allie’s different.” Andy retorted, not liking the direction the conversation was taking.

                “Not really, and you know it. You and I know she’s your kid, Andy’s kid. But to the world she’s Alexandra Saxton’s kid. And you may deny it all you want, but both Allie and the Priestly girls are the daughters of fashion icons. So it’s not so different.”

                “What are you trying to say, Claire? You want me to schedule play dates with the Priestly twins?” Andy snapped.

                “Of course not. I don’t think they’d like hanging with a six-year-old, in any case” the blonde retorted playfully, ignoring Andy’s increasingly sour mood. “I just want you to think about it; Miranda raised two daughters that turned out OK, even with all the press.”

                “Allie’s not going to therapy, and neither am I. So drop it.”

                Not wanting to anger her short-tempered friend any further, Claire let the discussion drop, even though she would have liked to explore it in more depth.

                “Fine. Just something to consider, since it seemed to work for Miranda.”

                Andy suddenly slammed her glass onto the table, annoyed.

                “Jesus, what’s with you today? Miranda this, Miranda that, Miranda’s kids, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda! Quit it already!”

                Claire jumped at the brunette’s sudden outburst, but kept herself in check. She shot a glare towards her friend.

                “Wow, aren’t we touchy today. Calm down. I’m just drawing some parallels.” She said in a monotonous tone.

                “Well, I’d appreciate it if you stopped ‘drawing parallels’. I don’t want to talk about Miranda Priestly.” Andy bit back in warning.

                “Why? One would think you would love to brag about turning the tables on the Devil in Prada.”

                “Don’t call her that.” Andy snapped before she could help herself.

                “Oh, yeah, my bad. _You_ are the new Devil in Prada, right? Or at least that was what you were trying to say before she tried to pull one over you, wasn’t it? With the red suit and all.”

                “Claire, stop it.”

                The blonde did, but only momentarily, giving the brunette a few seconds to compose herself. From the way she was gripping the glass until her knuckles turned white, Claire didn’t want to risk yet another mess of shattered glass in the study. She waited to continue until Andy had relaxed her grip and slumped back into the chair.

                “You know she’s still in London, right?”

                Andy sighed. She did know. Miranda had remained in London after Fashion Week, no doubt to try and get Alexandra Saxton on _Runway_ through more traditional, less manipulative means. She couldn’t really complain about the Editor’s insistence; she was the one who gave her the opportunity by not mentioning their disastrous encounter at Apsley’s that prompted the unveiling of her alias. Andy figured she could have dragged Miranda’s name through the mud if she spoke of it, but thought it better to just put them on equal footing. Having been Miranda’s assistant at _Runway_ was as good a reason as any to go to _Vogue_ for the big scoop; no one could accuse any of the two of favouritism.

                “Yeah, I’m aware” she responded absent-mindedly.

                 “She’s been leaving message after message daily, requesting a meeting. I’ve given your usual refusal.” Claire elaborated.

                Andy quirked an eyebrow, which made her assistant narrow her eyes toward her in confusion.

                “Next time she calls, set up a meeting.” She finally said. Claire’s brows almost reached her hairline when they shot upwards in surprise.

                “You know she’s just going to ask you to be published on _Runway,_ right?” the blonde tried.

                Andy shrugged.

                “Yup. So I’ll discuss it with her.”

                Claire carefully placed her glass on the table, continuing to regard her friend with a funny look on her face. Was Andy actually considering…

                “And what will you say?” she prompted with curiosity.

                “That depends on her offer.” The brunette said simply, not caring to elaborate further.

                “Hold on. Are you actually considering being published on _Runway?”_

                Andy’s only response was a nod. Claire let out an exasperated sigh.

                “Okay, enlighten me here. Isn’t that what she wanted in the first place? Why go through all this trouble— your epic unveiling and all that— just to come crawling back to _Runway?_ I don’t get it.”

                “I had to reveal myself because that was the best option, considering. If I went back when she gave me that ultimatum, it would have been on her terms and I couldn’t let her have that power over me. I need to… do it myself, so to speak.”

                Claire nodded in understanding.

                “So now, you’re going in on equal terms… right?”

                Andy chuckled. “Yeah… I’ll go in the traditional way. We both agreed that there’s no point in not being published now that everyone knows who I am… But we will look at offers from any publications interested, not just _Runway,_ OK?”

                The blonde groaned.

                “Are you kidding me? Do you know how many meetings that will be?”

                Andy could not help a laugh.

                “More than just a couple, I am sure. But we’ll look them through.”

                “Of course. Are you sure though? She could try to pull something again.” Claire said with a dry tone.

                “She’s got nothing left to pull. And I’ve got nothing on her either. We’re coming in clean.”

                “So what is this? A blank page?” the blonde asked, still a little confused. Andy did always get a little cryptic whenever Miranda Priestly was involved, but if the brunette was actually considering meeting the one again and possibly being featured on _Runway,_ they’d have to work out their issues. Eventually.

                “I guess you could say that. A blank page. A new beginning.” The brunette responded, her voice lowered to a contemplative murmur.

                Claire nodded in understanding, but not exactly sure that she understood anything at all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I missed a Monday (almost two, really...). I'm sorry about that; life happened and threw a complete curveball. I'm trying to get back on track. Thank you for your continued support and understanding. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                Andy looked at her full-length mirror once more, the feeling of déjà vu sparking doubt as she assessed herself yet again. A very short while ago she had done exactly this with a completely different goal in mind. Then, she had armoured herself for battle with the Dragon, draped in Prada from head to toe and shielded by the persona of Alexandra Saxton. This time, however, the extent of Alexandra Saxton’s presence would be the clothes on her back. Andy was not completely sure of what she was trying to say by wearing her own label; it’s not like it was unusual for a designer to wear their own work. It was almost expected, why should she be any different? She was her own person, with her own accomplishments. Yes, that’s what she was trying to convey: independence and success. This time, she would not butt heads with Miranda Priestly— hopefully— she would meet the woman as an equal and give her best attempt at civilised conversation.

                Claire had declared her crazy when she instructed her to set up a meeting whenever Miranda called again. In the blonde’s mind, there was no reason whatsoever for the woman to want meet with Andrea again, considering the humiliation she had been put through at the brunette’s hand. It had been a ballsy move; certifiably insane, but ballsy. In her assistant’s mind, Miranda should be out for her head on a silver platter, but Claire didn’t understand Miranda like Andy did. Or at least she hoped to still understand the unpredictable woman a little bit. She had hoped Miranda would notice she had in fact held back— there was so much more she could have done. There was no doubt in her mind that she could have pushed it much further; exposing Miranda’s heavy-handed tactics would put her in hot water with the Elias-Clarke board at least, and at most… Well, at most Andy would have accomplished what Irv Ravitz had tried eight years prior in Paris.

                As much as it pained her to admit it, Andy had been tempted. How many people would kill for the opportunity to strip the Ice Queen of her titles and influence? She laughed mirthlessly at the thought. A million people, probably. Just like a million girls would kill to be the woman’s assistant. The opportunity to squash Miranda Priestly like a bug under her shoe was almost too good to pass up. Almost. What ultimately stopped her was the simple and undeniable fact that Andy Sachs would never do such a thing to another human being. Alexandra Saxton, maybe, if she were more than smoke and mirrors hiding the smart fat girl from Cincinnati. But the point was, Andy and Alexandra _were_ different. And as much fear and admiration as Alexandra instigated, Andy needed to show Miranda she _was not_ what the woman expected. Right?

                It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, not to mention hypocritical. _Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us._ And what do you know? She had denied and refused to believe it like a child refusing to see reason. But she had grown. She had matured and now she was the one with the hordes of paparazzi outside her home, the fame, the money, the life. Wasn’t that what Miranda had predicted when she said she saw a great deal of herself in her? She could see beyond what people wanted, what they needed? Wasn’t that what she gave them, in a way, with the designs that entranced half the world? If Alexandra Saxton designed it, it was a near guarantee that people would want it. She saw beyond their desires and chose for herself.

                Compulsively smoothing over the imaginary wrinkles off her skirt with clammy hands, Andy deliberately avoided looking at bar area to the side of the room. She had not even seen the woman yet, but her throat was already parched with stress and anxiety. She hadn’t been this tense when she met her for the first time after all these years at Apsley’s, and back then Miranda still had a ton of leverage against her. Now neither of them had anything to pull on the other, yet her nerves were shot to all hell. Andy briefly wondered if Miranda was as tense as she was, but immediately dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter that Miranda had gone through the most humiliating moment of her entire career at her hand, the woman would more than likely stroll in as if she owned the world, with her head held high and heels clicking menacingly as she approached.

                Exasperated at her dry throat, she padded towards the bar area, filling a tall glass with water from the tap. She scrunched her nose at the taste, but she had made a promise. Plus, it probably would be best to have a clear head once she finally met Miranda. Though she could argue that a little of bourbon would help with her nerves, she really did not want to deal with Claire when she—

                “What are you drinking?” An accusing voice called from the door.

                Speak of the devil. Andy raised an eyebrow and took a large swig in defiance, looking the blonde straight in the eye before answering as she smacked her lips.

                “Water.”

                A disbelieving look was all the answer she got from her assistant before the other woman deigned it necessary to walk toward her, reprimand at the ready. Before she could help it, Claire took the glass from her hands and took a tentative sip. Andy rolled her eyes, trying not to look too hurt at the utter shock that manifested itself in Claire’s face as she confirmed that indeed, it was water.

                “So it is.” She said, returning the glass to Andy’s waiting hand. The brunette scoffed and finished the glass, holding back a grimace.

                “Are you ready? Not long now.”

                Andy deposited the glass in the sink, sighing softly, mostly to herself.

                “Pretty much. Just need my shoes.”

                “No make-up?” Claire inquired with a raised eyebrow.

                “Just a little. Gotta hide these bags under my eyes, they’re the only thing on me that aren’t designer.”

                The blonde rolled her eyes at the old joke, smacking Andy’s shoulders playfully.

                “They’re Alexandra Saxton’s, of course they’re designer” Claire retorted with a grin.

                “Hm, true. Maybe I should look into that.” Andy mused.

                “What, bags?”

                “Yeah. Expand my brand, and all that.” The brunette elaborated with a flourish of her hand.

                “Isn’t that what you’re going to do tonight? Expand your brand with _Runway_?”

                Andy eyed her assistant carefully.

                “We don’t know that. As of now, all I’m doing is meeting with the Editor. We’ll talk about it, and if she deems the designs acceptable, maybe I’ll be featured.”

                “What you’re doing is meeting with the Editor- _in-Chief_ of _Runway Magazine,_ Miranda Priestly, after humiliating her in cahoots with her mortal enemy. I get it that you could have done worse, but I still think you should head on over to _Vogue”_ Claire said with a pensive look.

                “Who knows? Maybe I will. I need to do this, Claire. I can’t really explain why, but I have to give her a choice and make her understand that I have my own to make as well.”

                “I think that your little stunt at the showing showed her plenty of your decision-making abilities, love. I won’t pretend to understand it, because it really feels counterproductive to go back to her after what she tried to pull.”

                Andy laughed humourlessly. Nothing about this was easy to understand.

                “I don’t really understand it myself, Claire. I have an offer to make, and so does she. No one’s pulling the other by a leash here, not this time. No agenda. No blackmail.”

                Claire looked sceptical, but relented.

                “Whatever you say, ‘Boss’. How about we get you some shoes, huh? You only have forty-five minutes.”

                “Sure, sure. Where are my Christian Lous that I got the other day?”

                Claire smirked before disappearing into the massive closet.

                “I knew you had good taste.”

 

* * *

 

 

                Miranda Priestly was fidgeting while battling her indecisiveness on what to wear, giving herself a face-melting glare through the ornate mirror in her hotel room so as to stop this nonsense. It was quite ridiculous, really. Miranda Priestly _did not_ fidget. Miranda Priestly _did not_ get indecisive about attire, of all things. Most of all, Miranda Priestly _did not_ need to giver herself mental pep talks to get things done. What was the world coming to?

                She ruffled a hand through her iconic silver coif, mussing it up completely. She was certifiably insane, that had to be the reason for all of this. It was the only plausible reason, because since when did Miranda lose all of her decision-making capabilities like a girl trying to decide what to wear to prom? Not even at that age had Miranda been that incapable— she was regarded as the Queen of Fashion for a reason.

                But this was different. What did one wear when meeting the person that had both humiliated and extended an olive branch simultaneously? Miranda Priestly had never been in this situation. Hell, not even Miriam Princhek had never been in this situation, and that was saying something. As she eyed her multiple options laid on the massive bed, she thought about how every outfit told a story, how the way each person dressed carried a certain point, a certain question, and, yes, as clichéd as it sounded, a statement. She held back sarcastic laughter whenever some idiotic reporter said the phrase ‘made a fashion statement’ or any variation thereof. Fashion was all about statements, therefore such observations were moot.

                Miranda was very careful about what her attire said. In her case, it wasn’t terribly hard; her position allowed her to exude sharpness, class, and most of all power, without a great deal of effort. Unless someone caught her in fluffy socks and bunny slippers, which was an impossibility unless that someone was named either Cassidy or Caroline, her image did most of the job. Still, a lot of thought went into her outfits for certain occasions. The right Valentino gown would put her yet another step above the laity. A tailored Bill Blass suit sent a loud and clear ‘don’t fuck with me’. This was true not just to Miranda, but to others as well. Emily’s earlier days at _Runway_ included a lot of experimenting with Westwood and Anna Sui, which showed a daring side along with her flamboyant eyeshadow palette. These days, more comfortable in her own skin, the redhead seemed to favour some Stella McCartney and Donna Karan.

                Even Andrea, in her ugly duckling phase, made a statement. Not that the brunette had been aware of it at the time. True, the message at the time was that she took herself too seriously to care about what she put on her back, as Miranda herself had so eloquently put it. She shuddered thinking about that lumpy monstrosity of a sweater the girl had worn. Not to mention the shoes— Miranda would rather not think about those. Then, once Nigel had gotten hold of the girl, the message became unclear, but evolving. Miranda liked to think of Andrea at that time like a blank canvas, a doll that others took a great amount delight in dressing and undressing. Slowly, Andrea had begun forming her own identity, favouring certain cuts and colours, and, once she was finally able to differentiate between them, certain designers in particular. It was a great thing to witness, not that Miranda would ever admit it. At first the girl had played it safe with some Anne Klein, maybe risking some Prada here or there. Truth was, Miranda had gotten the shock of her life when she saw Andrea throwing caution to the wind (in more ways than one) when she appeared at her door in a Gaultier bustier, trying to warn her about Irv’s machinations that she already knew all about.

                Supressing the thoughts of that Paris Fashion Week, Miranda thought back to another shock Andrea had given her with her choice of attire. This one had clearly been deliberate. Prada from head to toe, in red nonetheless. The message could not have been any clearer: _who’s the Devil in Prada now, Miranda?_ She scoffed. Miranda had set out to prove the brunette wrong, to show her exactly who the Devil in town really was, but she had then been completely blindsided. Cringing, Miranda tried not to think about the Alexandra Saxton showing; it was already hard enough not to see Anna Wintour’s smug smirk whenever she went to sleep.

                Despite the visions of an annoyingly satisfied Anna disturbing her sleep patterns, there was something a little more important at hand. Miranda _wanted_ to meet with Andrea. Despite what Stanley had suggested, Miranda _wanted_ to talk to the girl. Not the icon, the girl. Well, she was hardly a girl any longer, but the point was, Miranda wanted to see Andrea Sachs, not Alexandra Saxton. She had had but a glimpse of the young woman who used to be her assistant, and her morbid curiosity compelled her to at least try and see if there was any of the bubbly girl still hiding behind that ruthless façade she had come to know.

                _Runway_ would feature Alexandra Saxton. There was no doubt about that, it was only a matter of when. That’s what Andrea wanted, wasn’t it? If not, Miranda had doubt she would have suffered a lot more in the brunette’s hands. But no, the world; and, most importantly, the Elias-Clarke board, only thought Alexandra Saxton had gone to _Vogue_ first so as not to give any hints of favouritism. But she would be back at _Runway._ The only difference was that it would be of her own volition. No ‘back-stabbing bullshit’ as Andrea herself had said. For the first time ever, Miranda would actually give her a choice.

                Fixing her hair, Miranda looked at her watch. Not much time left. With an exasperated sigh, she shrugged off her uncharacteristic anxieties, finally choosing a tailored Saxton pantsuit from the array of selections.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Monday, another chapter! I was not too happy with this one, but it is what it is. Thanks for reading/commenting/leaving kudos!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                She wasn’t late, per se, she simply wasn’t there with her customary fifteen minutes to spare. Antecedence paid off; it gave her the opportunity to collect her thoughts, not to mention wreck the nerves of whoever she was meeting, making them subconsciously think they were late even though they were more often than not right on time. Bending the rules showed power, and Miranda Priestly knew all about power.

                Even though Miranda only found herself the extravagant interior of Alain Ducasse at about seven in the evening, she fully expected Andrea to be late again. She had done it before, and although the brunette had agreed to Miranda’s suggestion of time and place unlike last time, she would certainly keep Miranda waiting. Just to show that her independent streak was alive and well.

                Miranda scoffed; like that spectacle the week before hadn’t shown her that already. No, La Priestly knew full well when to back off. She just had never needed to before.

                To her genuine surprise, however, the Maître d’ informed her that her dinner companion was already present. As he led her through the sparsely arranged tables, Miranda found her nerves aflutter. This certainly threw a wrench on things; she was used to staking out the territory beforehand, so to speak. It definitely didn’t help that Andrea was already enjoying a glass of red wine, seeming perfectly composed, as if she were waiting for a friend and not her devil of an ex-boss. Well.

                As soon as Miranda got a closer look at the young woman, she immediately regretted her choice of attire. For taking so long in deciding on the damn thing, she sure looked like she was trying to suck up to a designer; something she _never, ever_ did. If anything, it was the other way around; Miranda did not have the time nor the patience to deal with diva designers and drama queens. She could not believe the thought had not occurred to her while she was getting dressed.

                Just as their eyes locked, a flicker of dread came and went through Andrea’s eyes. Her lips quirked into a crooked smile, no doubt noticing what Miranda was wearing. All Miranda could do was supress a sigh when Andrea’s own choice of attire came into view. She should have known— what stopped a designer from wearing their own label? Of all her choices, anything by Alexandra Saxton should not have been among them. What was she even thinking??

                Andy took one look at Miranda and her stress suddenly flared, full force. Thankfully, it disappeared just as quickly once she realised what the older woman was wearing, and she could not supress a good-natured smirk. If she didn’t know any better, she would think that Miranda was trying to suck up. Of course, she did know better. It was just that the possibility of Miranda not thinking about what she wore was just a little bit more than preposterous. No, the truth of the matter was that Miranda Priestly only wore what she liked. Therefore, it was no stretch of the imagination to say that the Devil in Prada genuinely _liked_ her clothes. The knowledge made Andy inwardly beam with pride. It was truly a shame that ‘The Devil in Saxton’ didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

                As soon as Miranda approached, Andy stood, dismissing the maître d’ with a polite nod and extending her hand to Miranda. It had been almost an automatic gesture, but the implication and desire for a truce of sorts were clear. At the very least it was an offer of civility.

                The only evidence that the Editor had been surprised by the offered hand was her slight hesitation before accepting it in a firm grip. As soon as their hands connected, Andy realised this was actually the first time she had actually touched the Queen of Fashion, and the feeling was a little more than surreal. Miranda also seemed to ponder that very fact, realising how unusual the action was in itself. The handshake lasted a few moments longer than a handshake normally would, but then again, both women were busy overanalysing the oddity of the situation.

                “Miranda. Good evening.” Andy spoke once they finally let go, gesturing for Miranda to take a seat.      

                The white-haired woman gave no immediate response other than a subtle nod of acknowledgement, but regally took her seat and gazed intently at Andrea. She regarded the brunette as one would a puzzle, and it unsettled Andy for a bit before she composed herself.

                “Good evening.” Miranda spoke at last as Andrea sat herself down with grace. She could not help but think of how the young woman was deliberately calculating her movements to seem natural, much like she did most of the time whenever she was in public.

                The ensuing silence was uncomfortable, not that any of the women showed any indication of feeling it. Andrea sipped at her wine demurely, while Miranda’s curious gaze did not show any signs of relenting. It was Miranda who finally broke it with a question and a raised eyebrow.

                “What are you having?” she asked, eyeing the glass of wine.

                Andy raised an eyebrow herself in more than a little confusion. Small talk?

                “Château Cos d’Estournel.” She answered simply, testing the waters. Miranda’s eyes briefly sparkled with what could possibly be a hint of amusement.

                “Good choice. Not exactly what I would have guessed for you, but nonetheless, a good choice.”

                _So this is a test of some kind,_ Andy thought. There was no possible way what Miranda would be able to guess anything of the kind, since the woman didn’t know her. Not even a little bit.  Once again, the conversation in the car at Paris Fashion Week popped into her thoughts, and Andy had to hold back her impulse to cringe. Yet again, another example of just how much like Miranda she could be at times— the particular selection had always been a favourite of the Editor’s. She remembered a time when she gasped at the exorbitant prices she had to go through when reordering for Miranda’s personal wine cellar back in New York. Here she was, surrounded by extravagance and still trying to pretend she wasn’t like the older woman. At least not _entirely._

“What other things wouldn’t you have guessed, Miranda?” Andy asked in earnest. Could she have a somewhat cordial conversation with Miranda Priestly? That remained to be seen.

                “Too many to count, I believe” Miranda answered cryptically before motioning a waiter over to their table, ordering a glass of the same wine. They did not speak another word until it was brought over. After gracefully sipping and subtly nodding her approval, Miranda trained her gaze onto Andrea once more before continuing.

                “I would never have guessed that I could possibly hire someone like you. Or that you would last more than a week. Or that you would manage to exceed any of my expectations. Or that you would leave the way you did.”

                She sipped at her wine once more, giving her dramatic pause a little more emphasis while Andy discreetly closed the hand resting on her lap into a tight fist.

                “Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that you are the one behind Alexandra Saxton. Nor that you would retaliate with such force and theatrics when pushed.”

                Andy bristled just a bit at the comment, but glared straight back at Miranda in defiance.

                “You had it coming.” She remarked in a low tone. To her surprise, the Queen of Fashion shrugged her shoulders.

                “I never said it was unwarranted. Had I not borne the brunt of your handiwork, I’d probably commend your tactic. Using Anna Wintour to get back at me? Ingenious. Utterly humiliating, but it certainly was inspired.”

                At the declaration, all Andrea could do was stare at Miranda as if she had grown another head. She resisted an almost uncontrollable urge to pinch herself. Out of all the possible scenarios she had run in her mind, Miranda praising her strategy had not been one of them. She had no answer to that.

                “However, as dreadfully mortifying as the experience was, there’s something else that I would never have guessed” Miranda continued, lacing her manicured fingers together directly in front of her, still scrutinizing the brunette with a cold, curious gaze.

                “And what would that be, Miranda?” Andy leaned back into her seat, showing measured disinterest.

                “You and I know full well that you held back. You and I know that you could have made my life a living Hell, and yet… You didn’t.”

                Andrea toyed with her wine glass, avoiding Miranda’s questioning gaze.

                “No. I didn’t.”

                Oddly, Miranda did not seem satisfied with her answer.

                “Why? You’re not an idiot, or so I hope. I would not have hesitated to completely destroy you, were I in your shoes.”

                Miranda could tell the young woman bristled at her comparison, although she tried to shrug it off. She could see it took the brunette considerable effort to keep herself in check after the comparison, which was interesting, to say the least. The parallels with their conversation in Paris were evident.

                “I’m not you, Miranda.” Andrea retorted with venom.

                To Andy’s surprise, Miranda chuckled with what seemed to be genuine mirth. The sound was so foreign, yet it send a pleasant shiver down her spine.

                “Yes, that much is apparent. I seem to remember that the mere notion of having anything in common with the Dragon Lady was enough to send you running in the opposite direction. Literally.”

                Andrea seemed uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. Tough luck.

                “Miranda, though I have to admit that the comparison terrified me— and still does— I’d have to be the world’s biggest hypocrite to deny our… similarities while I’m sitting here” she gestured around the restaurant’s ostentatious interior “talking with you after having to outrun a horde of tabloid reporters. I may not like it, but it’s something I have to deal with.”

                The silver-haired woman raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Andrea did not seem to understand the extent to which she wished to take the comparison, but she was hesitant to push it further, especially since she had yet to see Andrea for what she was. The woman in front of her was still much of Alexandra Saxton, with her calculated movements and measured tones.

                Instead of returning to the conversation, Miranda motioned for a waiter to come. They both ordered whatever special delicacy was on offer, not bothering to give dinner too much thought. Andrea seemed deep in thought as their wine glasses were refilled. The editor just bid her time, sipping occasionally. After a few minutes, the young woman finally spoke again.

                “I was tempted to crush you. I really was.” She confessed in a soft voice, almost as if she was talking to herself.

                “I’d be surprised if the thought had not occurred to you. You must be the only one to pass such an opportunity.” Miranda conceded.

                Andrea laughed humourlessly. She had thought the exact same thing. Turning her gaze back to Miranda, she noticed that the woman’s inquisitive look had returned. She sighed.

                “Do you know why I didn’t, in the end?”

                “I suspect it has something to do with the comparison we talked about. I think deep down, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it because _that’s not who you are._ But that particular theory confuses me.”

                Andy could not help but gape at the woman in front of her momentarily before putting herself back together. She didn’t know why exactly she was so surprised that Miranda was nearly spot on, because she really shouldn’t be— the woman was an undeniable expert at reading people.

                “Why does it confuse you, Miranda?” she couldn’t help but ask.

                Miranda surprised her once again.

                “Who am I speaking to at this very moment?” she asked, as if the weird question was totally normal.

                Andy narrowed her eyes at the Editor. What on Earth was going on?

                “What kind of question is that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

                “Who am I speaking to?” Miranda repeated, gently dabbing at her lips with her napkin before continuing. “Is it Andrea Sachs or Alexandra Saxton? Because it makes a difference.”

                Miranda could tell that the brunette was absolutely flummoxed by her question.

                “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Andy snapped, unsure of where Miranda was aiming to take the bizarre line of inquiry. “And why does it make a difference?”

                “When I called you before, you said, and I quote, that _Andrea Sachs_ wasn’t available, but _Alexandra_ was.” Miranda remarked casually.

                “So? That’s who you really wanted to meet then, wasn’t it? The person behind the designs you had with you.”

                “But when I scheduled this current meeting, there was no mention of Alexandra. I asked to meet with Andrea Sachs, and you complied.” She continued.

                “Your point being?” Andy retorted, getting progressively more annoyed with the charades.

                “My point is that I’ve been trying to ascertain whom I’ve been speaking with all evening. Is it Andrea? Is it Alexandra? Because depending on who you are, it makes a difference.”

                Andy did not respond.

                “If we’re talking about Andrea, I know she would not have dragged my name through the mud, because she could never forsake her ideals entirely. She would be unbelievably harsh, but she’d have limits.” Miranda explained, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

                “And Alexandra?” Andy asked, bracing herself.

                Miranda’s eyes sparkled then narrowed to mere slits. She took a long moment before answering.

                “Alexandra would be ruthless, and borderline evil. She’d be vengeful, not without cause, but she would be brutal.”

                “That distinction answers your question then” Andy reasoned, a little anxious with how easily Miranda had differentiated between the two. “Your life is not a living Hell, so therefore you must be talking to Andrea, not Alexandra.” It didn’t escape her that she pronounced her own name as Miranda always had. The older woman had clearly noticed it as well, though she did not show any reaction other than mild surprise.

                “Ah, but herein lies the confusion that comes with my theory” Miranda continued, unfazed. “Although I’m supposed to be meeting with Andrea Sachs, I have yet to see her.” She explained.

                “What’s that supposed to mean?”

                “The one I’ve been speaking with so far is Alexandra. Granted, it’s a much more civil incarnation than the one that thoroughly humiliated me last week, but it’s still the iconic designer. I see no evidence that the Andrea Sachs I once knew exists anywhere within her.”

                Andy seethed, her jaw clenching.

                “So you want to talk to the polyester-wearing, smart, _fat_ girl that stumbled around in stilettos while carrying your coffee? Hate to break it to you, but she’s not here anymore.”

                “Of course not, I’m not an idiot. It has been eight years. That self-righteous, presumptuous fool is better off gone” Miranda retorted with venom.

                Andrea was about to snap, but before she had the opportunity to, Miranda continued, her voice softening as she went.

                “I want to talk with the Andrea Sachs that worked at _Runway,_ the one who was disillusioned with her dreams of being a journalist. The one who came to understand fashion for what it was. The one who used her remarkable brains to create the ferocious yet brilliant Alexandra Saxton, finding her place in the world. I want to talk to my biggest disappointment.”

                For the second time that evening Andrea resisted the urge to pinch herself. The conversation had been rather bizarre from the start, but this was really something else. Did Miranda just call her remarkable? To make things even weirder, Miranda had a subdued, yet very real smile curving her lips upwards only slightly. It was the first time that Andy didn’t feel threatened by the expression.

                The brunette took a deep breath before finally answering.

                “Speaking as your biggest disappointment, I needed to put us on the same level. You know why we’re here; you still want to publish my _stuff”_ she grinned when Miranda shifted in her seat at the word “on _Runway._ If you really do, we’ll do this properly; no blackmail or…”

                “Backstabbing bullshit, as you’ve said before” the Editor completed, surprising Andrea once again.

                “Yes” Andy nodded “none of that, please.”

                The two women simply looked intently at each other for a few more moments. Miranda was the one to finally break the silence.

                “So you _do_ want to be featured in _Runway.”_

“Well, yes. You were the one to remind me what great publicity it would be, remember?” Andy joked half-heartedly. “But now I, well, we have to go through the appropriate channels to do it.”

                Miranda scoffed, but not in the cold demeanour she was so well known for.

                “And what would the appropriate channels be?”

                “Well, I _am_ meeting with the Editor-in-Chief. I’d say that’s a good start. But I still need to see if she’ll like what I have to offer.”

                The older woman rolled her eyes.

                “Andrea, I am wearing your label as I’m meeting with you. I’d say there’s a remarkably good chance that I’ll like whatever it is you have to offer.”

                Andy laughed, noting that it was the first time in their entire conversation that Miranda had directly called her by her name. She ignored the shivers it sent down her spine, eyeing the woman’s outfit once more.

                “What’s with that, anyway? If you can’t beat them, join them?” she said with mirth. Miranda’s second pronounced eye roll did not go unnoticed by the brunette.

                “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. It’s more a matter of if you can’t beat them, publish them.”

                Andy almost choked on her wine when _Miranda Priestly_ made a joke so offhandedly. She did not have a chance to answer, however.

                “I would like to see what you have. I leave London on the day after tomorrow, so do get in touch with my assistant whenever you have anything new.” Miranda looked at her with renewed intensity, as if gauging the veracity of their dealings.

                “Absolutely” Andy replied immediately. “If you’d like, you could have a preview for Milan.”

                The brunette did her best not to laugh as the Fashion Queen’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Good to know she still had a couple of cards up her sleeve to surprise Miranda Priestly.

                “That would be acceptable” the woman finally answered after composing herself. In yet another uncharacteristic flight of fancy, Miranda extended her hand to the brunette, who only paused momentarily before taking it in a firm, promising handshake. It marked many things: a truce, a business deal, opportunity. But most of all, it marked the first civil, bordering on cordial, conversation Andy Sachs had ever had with Miranda Priestly in over eight years.

                It would be entirely incomparable from before, in a completely different context, but the two women were thinking along the same lines: Andrea Sachs would be back at _Runway._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was going to post two chapters by this Thursday (to make up for the past two Mondays), but since this one was already done, I decided to go ahead and post it. Expect the other one by Thursday! Thank you for your kudos and comments, they are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                There were very good reasons why Miranda Priestly was known as the Ice Queen. Her steely blue gaze, her solid control and icy demeanour were all legendary. The world saw her as an immovable force, a solid boulder that sat resolute and unmoved by anything or anyone. As such, anyone would find it quite surprising to see the Ice Queen nervously pacing her hotel suite, wringing her hands together as she all but wore a hole in the exquisite Persian rug spread out in her elegant sitting room.

                Her assistant watched the fashion maven as discreetly as she could, wishing to appear useful but not intruding. If she had to be honest with herself, Miranda was scaring the living daylights out of her right this second. The older woman frightened her a lot more when the rest of the _Runway_ team was not around to act as a buffer. Most of the team had departed for New York as scheduled almost a week prior, but Miranda had elected to remain in London, which meant that Eliza was stuck right there with her. Ever since the Saxton showing that would live in infamy, Miranda had been in an absolutely murderous mood for most of the subsequent week.

                Eliza did not blame her one bit; it had been an utterly and completely humiliating experience. Tongues were a-wagging since then, as the fashion world’s gossip hounds recounted the tale of the notorious phone-launching assistant that had left Miranda Priestly stranded during the middle of Paris Fashion Week and gone on to become none other than the most sought after designer of the decade. Andrea Sachs was almost a myth at _Runway,_ one Eliza and every other assistant before her was well acquainted with. The legend of the errant assistant was kept alive mostly by Emily and Nigel. They had actually met the woman, and Emily saw it as her duty even today to forewarn incoming assistants of the size of the shoes they ought to fill, which didn’t belong to their predecessor, but to Andrea, even after all those years.

                The stories told by Emily and Nigel did not seem to add up, however. They spoke of a gawky, ditzy girl who was hard-working but foolish. Most of all, the girl they spoke of seemed to not give a damn about fashion, and her clumsiness apparently showed in the way she dressed and in how she carried herself. Eliza could recall an occasion when her co-workers were reminiscing about some ‘hideous skirt convention’ or something along those lines.

                That was a far sight from the woman Eliza had seen at the Saxton show. The Andrea Sachs that had at last revealed herself as Alexandra Saxton exuded confidence and power the likes of which Eliza had only seen in one other person ever, and that person just so happened to be her boss, current posture notwithstanding. The brunette looked positively vicious, not to mention victorious up on the runway. She actually sent an unpleasant shiver down the assistant’s spine, a reaction that Eliza had previously only associated with a certain silver-haired Editor-in-Chief.

                Subtly excusing herself, Eliza quickly made her way into her own room: Miranda’s apparent nervousness was making her anxious. She whipped out her phone and speed-dialled the only person she knew of that could possibly lend her a hand in this hour of need.

                “Nnh… Hello?” mumbled a sleep-laden voice with a distinctive London lilt.

                “Emily! Thank God, help me out here!”

                “Eliza? Why in the bloody Hell are you calling me? It’s five in the sodding morning!”

                The assistant cringed at the Brit’s annoyed tone.

                “Oh, time difference, my bad.”

                “What do you want now, you twit?” Emily snapped.

                “I’m going totally nuts here, Emily. Miranda’s acting all weird.”

                “Woman, you have called me nearly every damn day this past week, every single time with some sort of update on Miranda’s moods. What do you suppose I should do, wave my little Harry Potter wand and fix it for you?”

                Eliza huffed, exasperated with Emily’s sarcasm, which, apparently, never slept.

                “Tell me how to deal with her! I’ve seen her sad, mad, even happy, but this is uncharted territory!”

                “What do you mean?”

                “She’s _nervous_! I can’t handle this! She’s all _fidgety._ ”

                “Fidgety?”

                “Fidgety.”

                “Don’t be daft” Emily retorted with her usual haughty tone. “Miranda Priestly does not fidget. Honestly, the very idea.”

                “Well, then Miranda Freaking Priestly is MIA, because the woman I’m stuck with here is _fidgeting_!”

                Eliza could hear Emily’s irritated groan on the other side of the line, and could practically feel the redhead’s signature eye-roll.

                “Eliza, give the woman a break. She’s been humiliated by a ghost of assistant’s past. Ride it out.” Emily said, and Eliza could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose as she spoke.

                “Ride it out?? _Ride it out?!_ That’s all you got?!” the assistant almost screeched.

                “Well, if I had had more sleep then perhaps I could come up with something more adequate for Your Majesty. Bollocks, Eliza, I’ve never seen Miranda nervous. You’re on your own.”

                “Emily, _please,_ give me something! Help me out here!” Eliza begged.

                “No. Shan’t. Ta.” Emily finally quipped, ending the call before the assistant had the chance to say anything else.

                She stared at her mobile in disbelief. That had gone well.

                Miranda’s broody mood had been a staple during most of the extra week the two women had spent in London, but that Eliza could handle. She had been trying to set up another meeting with Alexandra Saxton, or Andrea Sachs, whichever, only to be denied each and every single time. That is, until Miranda finally got sick of her incompetence and making the calls herself. Lo and behold, it worked, and the Editor had met with the designer for a second time.

                Miranda had been in an abnormally good mood after the first meeting, but after the second, the pacing and the fidgeting had begun, and the whole thing really threw Eliza for a loop.

                “Eliza.” Called Miranda’s soft voice, not giving away the woman’s current state whatsoever. The assistant promptly scrambled to her side, notepad in hand and pen at the ready.

                “Yes, Miranda?”

                The older woman was no longer pacing; now she rested on the couch with an array of papers nestled on her lap.

                “Get in touch with Guillermo at _Runway Italia_ , tell him I want to discuss some previews for Milan as soon as possible. I don’t care what he says, tell he will not regret it, but he absolutely must keep at least five pages open for the Milan special.”

                Eliza supressed a sigh. Although Miranda was the Editor-in-Chief on _Runway_ ’s flagship in New York, as well as the most highly regarded figure in fashion, there was always some animosity between the editors of the different _Runway_ editions from other countries. None of them liked the amount of control Miranda still had over their magazines, even if they were theoretically in charge.

                Miranda watched as her assistant dutifully wrote down her demands, a plan beginning to develop in her ever-active mind. She personally thought it was a splendid idea, but she had been wrong in this front before. She had to discuss it with Andrea. What had the young woman said during their dinner the night before? Appropriate channels, or something like that. There she had it, here was Miranda Priestly, following the appropriate channels. Well, mostly. It would not hurt to use a bit (or a lot) of her weight to encourage a couple of other editors in the right direction.

                “Eliza, also see if Andrea Sachs is available for a quick meeting tomorrow, before our flight to New York. Brunch, perhaps.”

                “Yes, Miranda.”

                “That’s all.”

                As Eliza went on to perform her tasks, Miranda took a few moments to consider her plan. Guillermo would be a tough nut to crack, mostly because Milan Fashion Week was already upon them; but she would sway him on the matter.

                _Runway France_ was another matter altogether. After the James Holt fiasco, by some miracle or fluke of fate, Jacqueline Follet was right back at the Editor-in-Chief’s chair. To rub salt on the wound, _Runway_ _France_ was the most successful overseas publication from Elias-Clarke, a fact that made Miranda grit her teeth in repulsion. There was a time when the French were heralded as the crème de la crème in fashion, which Miranda found downright dubious with someone like Jacqueline Follet at the helm.

                The fact that Miranda would need that dim-witted cow absolutely galled her. She had no doubt Jacqueline would read much more into it than she intended. No matter, Miranda would endure it; it was an means to an end after all. All that was left to do was convince Andrea to follow through with it.

 

               

* * *

 

 

                Claire clacked away on the sleek keyboard, going through the absurdly immense pile of emails still left unanswered that multiplied itself on the daily. She ignored her ringing phone for the time being— it probably was that insufferable woman from _Bazaar_ whose mental capacity clearly did not encompass an understanding of the word ‘no’.

                Andy simply would not go to any other magazine, a point that had been stated and reiterated by the brunette a little too often. So that much had been obvious, even though Claire maintained that it was insanity. Even if nothing was set in stone, Andrea had clearly made her choice— and that choice was _Runway._ She had attempted to explain her convoluted reasoning behind the decision, but Claire could only go so far in her pretence of understanding. Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to Miranda Priestly for a second time was truly beyond her. She knew there was some bizarre connection between the two; it had been obvious when she had first met Andy. It had taken a backseat over the years, however, as Alexandra Saxton evolved— both as a brand and as an identity. Now, it was back full-force, and it worried her. Andy had been nervous and on edge, at times bordering on manic.

                From the very beginning, it was crystal clear that Miranda Priestly was the source of Andy’s anxiety and stress; Claire just didn’t know precisely why. She remembered the first showing in Paris, Andy’s first ‘real’ collection, _Privus._ The brunette had nearly had a fulminating heart attack when the Queen of Fashion herself walked in, unannounced. The panic rolled off her shoulders in waves, it was practically tangible. Andy had puked backstage and almost fainted. Once she had recovered somewhat, she spied the showroom from behind the curtains, focusing intently on the Editor. Just by reading the stoic’s woman’s expressions and reactions to the show, the panic resurfaced.

                “She’s going to want to meet me” Andy had said, as white as a ghost. Claire had only laughed; the likelihood of Miranda Priestly personally meeting with a newbie designer right out of the gate after one measly showing? Non-existent.

                Andy, however, had been adamant.

                “Tell her I’m not available. Like, ever. I have no interest in being published, on _Runway_ or elsewhere. And by the love of God, _do not_ say my real name under any circumstances whatsoever!”

                At the time Claire had simply rolled her eyes at her seemingly delusional friend. Not two minutes after the show ended, however, a British-sounding, stick-thin redhead appeared out of thin air, saying that Miranda Priestly demanded to meet with Alexandra Saxton ‘right this minute, she does not like to be kept waiting’. Claire had been caught off-guard, and wondered how on Earth Andrea had known Miranda would want to meet her. However, she was nothing if not professional, so she politely relayed Andy’s message to the redhead.

                It was like talking to a wall— the woman was relentless, and simply would not take ‘no’ for an answer. Finally, out of common courtesy, Claire had agreed to inform Miranda herself. And although she was not as good at reading the woman as Andy seemed to be, she could tell fairly easily that the Devil in Prada was quite taken aback at the refusal.

                And so began a rather tiring pattern. Miranda’s minions would tirelessly attempt to get Alexandra Saxton onto the pages of _Runway._ When that did not yield any results, Miranda herself began to call, and she was relentless.

                Claire frowned at the memory of Miranda’s first call. It was on speakerphone, and Andy had been in the office with her at the time. The brunette had paled as soon as she heard the woman’s disembodied voice permeating the room from the speaker. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead and her hands started to shake violently. Miranda brought more than panic. Claire’s frown deepened into a scowl as memories crossed through her mind. After that first call, Andy had disappeared— Claire only found her the next morning, wandering around the park, drunk out of her mind.

                From then on, Andrea was temperamental but tireless. She worked nonstop, constantly warring with herself, angry at the smallest details that didn’t come out precisely as she pictured them. In her mind, Claire referred to that time as the birth of Alexandra Saxton as a persona. It was a frightening thing to witness: Andrea worked herself ragged, then drowned her anxiety and fears with hard liquor. The only time the brunette appeared to be at peace was during her shows, when the Devil in Prada was present. Claire had witnessed first-hand the look of utter triumph and relief that came over her friend’s features whenever the Dragon Lady’s façade dropped for mere moments, whenever she was entranced by the wonder that were Alexandra’s creations.

                The phone’s persistent ringing shook her away from her musings. The blonde blinked in confusion for a second before groaning and yanking the handset to her year.

                “Claire Murdoch.”

                Her eyes widened as the Fashion Queen’s assistant identified herself from the other end of the line. She nodded absent-mindedly while the other woman talked, writing everything down.

                “Yes, I’ll mention it. I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you, goodbye.”

                Claire closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Why did Miranda want to meet Andy again so soon? She hesitated; Andy got weird after her meetings with the Ice Queen. The first time she had relapsed and gotten absolutely plastered; the last she had locked herself away in her study all night— Claire could only hear the frantic scratching of pencil to paper well into the wee hours of the morning.

                At present, Andy was in the family room with Allie, putting together a model of the Coliseum. The little girl had just yesterday relented with the cold-shoulder she had been giving her mother, who was now doing her best to distract the child from the paparazzi that still camped outside. After Andy’s meeting with Miranda Priestly at Alain Ducasse made the front page of _The Daily Mirror,_ they had been re-energized. Andy had withdrawn Allie from the neighbourhood school, at least for the time being. The little girl had protested, but Andy was legitimately making an effort to spend more time with her to rectify the situation.

                As Claire made her way to the family room, she heard giggles, which were always a good sign. The distinctive sound of Andy’s hearty laugh combined with Allie’s strident peals of laughter brought a smile to the blonde’s face.

                “Knock, knock.” She said aloud before entering the room.

                Both brunettes were sprawled on the fluffy carpeting, clutching their middles in fits of laughter.

                “What’s going on here?” Claire asked as neither seemed to have noticed her appearance.

                Andy turned towards her, pausing her giggles momentarily.

                “Minerva’s got half of the arena stuck to her behind!” She explained, pointing to the couch where the feline contorted itself trying to get rid of the cardboard glued to her furry bum.

                Allie seemed to find Andy’s explanation even more hilarious, and rolled around in a full-fledged giggle fit.

                “Poor cat” Claire quipped, walking over the sitting area and yanking the cardboard away in one swift motion, which earned her a menacing hiss and an attempted clawing.

                “Hey! I’m on your side, you animal!” she snapped as Minerva bounded off the couch and ran for cover under the comfy armchair.

                “Ungrateful little thing, isn’t she?” Andy added while Allie shrieked with glee.

                “You can say that again. Why didn’t you get a dog? They’re loyal at least, or so I hear.”

                “Dogs are loud.” Allie said seriously.

                “That they are” Andy agreed heartily. “Goodness, look at the time! It’s past your bedtime, young lady. Teeth, bed, right this second!”

                Allie pouted, but seemed to know it was a lost battle.

                “Can I bring my pillow to your room, Mum?” she asked, shooting a full-blown puppy-dog face at her mother.

                “Of course, Munchkin. I’ll be up in a few minutes, run along now.”

                The little girl scampered happily away up the stairs, Minerva following her quickly.          

                Claire waited for Andrea to pull herself up and off the floor.

                “So, what’s up?” the brunette asked.

                “Miranda Priestly’s assistant called. She wants to discuss Milan with you tomorrow before she returns to New York.” Claire explained.

                Andy ran her fingers through her chestnut tresses, releasing an audible sigh.

                “Yeah, OK. Brunch then. But it’ll have to be here— I’m not too keen on being on the front page of some tabloid again.”

                Claire gave her a guarded look.

                “And you think Miranda Priestly coming to your home won’t be front page material? Hello?”

                “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.” Andy waved her off. “Just confirm brunch, and fill Mary in.

                “Now” Andy smirked “I’ve got a five-year-old who absolutely needs to know what happened to Piglet and Pooh. So… Goodnight, Claire.”  

                The blonde smirked back, watching Andy’s retreating form. The woman would always be an enigma. She made her way back into the office to confirm brunch. With Miranda Priestly. She really could only hope that Andy knew what she was getting into. Despite the brunette’s sudden confidence, Claire was sceptical about her return to _Runway._

                Sighing, she dialled Miranda’s assistant back. She’d keep the _Vogue_ contracts on file. Just in case.

               


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well look who's back from the dead. Apologies for the monstrous delay; real life is kind of having its way with me at the moment. Not much here, but I needed something to get back on track. Thank you all so much for your continued support!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

                “You sure you’re OK?”

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “Yes, Bobbsey, everything is just fine.”

                “Since when have you settled for ‘fine’? I mean, mom! Talk about shocking. Honestly I didn’t even know you let your assistant’s live. I can’t believe that Harry Potter girl was Alex Saxton all along; Caroline is going to flip shit!”

                Miranda huffed indignantly at her daughter’s ridiculous idea and choice of words. It was no use to call her out; her two girls had mastered Priestly eye-rolls of their own.

                “Well, what did you suppose I did with said assistants when their tenure was over?”

                She could hear her daughter’s amused scoff on the other end.

                “To be completely honest, we both just assumed you cut ‘em into bits and fed them to Patricia.”

                “What kind of monster do you take me for? I would never subject a family pet to something so noxious.”

                Cassidy just laughed.

                “Anyhow, I can’t wait to tell Caroline when she comes back to civilisation! How are things with the infamous _Ahn-drey-uh_?”

                “We have talked. I have a distinct feeling that Alexandra Saxton will be gracing _Runway’s_ pages very soon.” Miranda said, twirling her Montblanc fountain pen between her fingers.

                “For real?! That’s totally awesome! But I would have thought you would make mincemeat outta her for that _Vogue_ thing she pulled. I’m just catching up with all the tabloids, there’s a huge pile of stuff to go through!”

                The Editor groaned audibly.

                “ _Stuff_ , Cassidy?” she chided.

                “Oh, give me a break. My brain is full of sand.” Her oldest quipped.

                “Evidently, since your vocabulary seems to have been greatly reduced over your little holiday. Did you remember to only drink bottled water?”

                Miranda could picture the monumental eye-roll Cassidy was most likely performing at that very moment. Where had she learned that, she wondered.

                “ _Yes,_ mom. Jeez, don’t be such a worrywart.” The girl retorted sarcastically.

                “Not even ice?”

                “Mom! It’s just water!”

                Miranda humphed in a particular way only her two daughters were familiar with.

                “Yes, dear, do remember that when you’re doubled over the toilet at home vomiting your little heart out. I’ll just say ‘I told you so’”.

                “I love you too, mom.”

 

 

                Once the conversation was finished, Miranda went about the process of packing for her flight home. She really missed her girls. They had not been following the past Fashion Week as they used to, as they were both travelling with friends. Caroline had gone on some Appalachian Trail excursion, while Cassidy had opted for the wonderful beaches of Mexico. Miranda’s heart clenched with bittersweet feelings. She was proud of the young women the twins had grown into. But it had happened so fast. In the blink of an eye, they had gone from adorable little girls to stunning, confident young women. Guilt consumed her most of the time; she felt she had been absent for most of their lives. 

                They were so similar, beyond the obvious, but also so different. It was showing in the steps they chose to take to begin their lives on their own.

                Cassidy had been enamoured with science, forensics specifically, from a very young age. Miranda shuddered when she thought about all the gory TV shows the girl had watched non-stop. She had taken to researching famous forensic files during her free time, as well as developing the disturbing hobby of watching real autopsies. As long as she showed no inclination towards becoming a lawyer, Miranda would play the supportive parent. That did not, however, mean that she enjoyed it very much.

                Now Caroline was another matter altogether, and she worried Miranda a lot more than her sister’s macabre inclinations. Just as with Cassidy, it had begun at a very young age. Miranda had innocently asked them what they would like to be when they grew up over dinner one day. While Cassidy babbled on and on about blood spatter analysis, Caroline had looked her straight in the eye and responded in all seriousness with only one word. ‘ _You.’_

                Miranda had been taken aback by the declaration. It was not very surprising that one of her daughters would be interested in fashion, given her profession and her influence. However, as proud as she was of her career and numerous achievements, it was not exactly the life she wished for either of them.

                She had desperately tried to steer Caroline in another direction— any other direction— to no avail. Caroline had taken to annotate pages of rival magazines with changes she would make, spreads she would do without or reinvent completely. She had even caught her incredibly stubborn spawn multiple times with the Book; and to her surprise and desperation, the girl clearly had more than a knack for it; it was talent, dedication and a whole lot of ambition all in one. And, of course, Caroline would have none of her mother’s non-too-subtle approaches to other career paths. She clearly had inherited her rather obvious obstinate streak.

                That was another way in which the two differed from one another. Cassidy had inherited their father’s even temperament and even a few of his mannerisms. Caroline, on the other hand, was so much like herself it was actually quite frightening. Whenever Miranda looked into her daughter’s icy blue eyes, it was like looking directly into a younger version of herself. The girl had even mastered her patented La Priestly death glare, and her voice carried to its intended target softly but deadly, just like Miranda’s.

                Shaking herself off that train of thought, Miranda looked at her schedule on her Blackberry. Eliza thankfully had a knack for technology, and updated her schedule on the go pretty smoothly most of the time. If only she were not so airheaded. She had a tendency to be forgetful, which was mildly endearing at the best of times, but mostly downright stressful. Miranda had an inkling that Emily had been the one responsible for making sure the girl hadn’t majorly screwed anything up. Yet. All she had to do at the moment was pack her carry-on for the flight back to New York, something she liked to do herself.

                And, of course, there was brunch. Ordinarily, Miranda did not stress about meeting designers and reinforcing a couple of rules, or even some of her own ideas to keep them in line. But if there was anything she had learned during the past few weeks, it was that Alexandra Saxton was anything _but_ ordinary. She had seen through the Saxton mask and spoken to Andrea at last, but she would tread carefully this time. There was no need for another _Vogue_ spectacle.

                Still, Miranda thought her idea was nothing short of splendid. It made sense, from pretty much any perspective. It _had_ the potential to infuriate the talented brunette a little, but it was a risk she was willing to take. She would be happy. Her investors would be happy. Stanley would be happy. Andrea would be happy— in the long run at the very least. Anna Wintour would yank her hair out.

                It was perfect.

                All she needed was a little bit of tact. And, of course, the cooperation of a couple of other Editors-in-Chief from _Runway’_ s international ventures.

                Sighing, she called out for Eliza to update her on her little plan. There was no time to lose.

 

 

* * *

 

               

                “Turn around.”

                The tall, slim blonde did as instructed, carefully watching her step and minding the delicate ruffles of the intricate gown she currently wore.

                “Stop.”

                She followed the directive, aware of a sharp pair of eyes scrutinizing every seam and stitching pattern of the couture.

                Alexandra Saxton, _the_ Alexandra Saxton, walked up to her and then around, examining the piece as a scientist would examine a specimen under a microscope. Her lips moved slightly as if she were speaking to herself, but no sounds came out. The sheer focus present in the brunette’s eyes and furrowed brow was nothing short of astonishing. A barely perceptible purse of her lips formed at the end of her acute observations. _Uh-oh._

“We’re done here. Thank you, Cecilia.” Alexandra said, her voice bored and airy.

                The blonde grimaced, and before she could censor her words, spoke.

                “It’s a beautiful gown, Alexandra.”

                The brunette whirled to face the model, a shark-like grin tugging at her lips.

                “Yes it is. It is also unsuitable.” She said with the same light tone, almost sing-song.         

                Cecilia furrowed her brows in confusion.

                “Why?” she asked, before she could help herself.

                Alexandra slowly and deliberately took a couple of steps in her direction.

                “You’re a beautiful woman, Cecilia. This is a beautiful gown.” She said, her manicured fingers lightly following the path of the seams that hugged the model’s collarbone. The woman shivered at the touch.

                “However” Alexandra continued, now holding one of the ruffles coming off the model’s shoulders between thumb and index, her face a mask of disdain. “As beautiful as this gown may be, I do not find you beautiful in it. Therefore, it has failed its only purpose.” She dropped the ruffle dejectedly.

                “Why do people wear couture, Cecilia? Why do they follow fashion like a religion?” she spoke in a whisper, as if she’d forgotten about the model’s presence.

                “It’s all for beauty. And I cannot allow a gown like this to bear my name if it doesn’t _feel_ beautiful and perfect.”

                At that, Alexandra stepped away.

                “Come back the day after tomorrow, we’ll try something else.” She said simply.

                Cecilia nodded and scurried back to the changing room in the corner. Once she had left, Claire entered with bemused expression.

                “So, what was wrong with this one for it to be deemed… _unsuitable?”_

                Andy grinned.

                “I don’t know what I was thinking when I added those ruffles. Honestly!”

                Claire simply shrugged her shoulders.

                “Hey, I thought it looked OK. I’d wear it.”

                “So would I” Andy conceded, barking out a laugh when Claire’s expression went from bemused to utterly confused. “It’s just not good enough to put my _name_ on it.” She clarified.

                Her assistant laughed.

                “Well, technically your name doesn’t go on _any_ of your clothes.” She said with mirth.

                Andy chuckled, punching her friend playfully on the shoulder. She turned to the side table where there was a mess of scattered papers in a mixture of sketches, photos, drawings and notes, gathering and carefully organizing them in a neater pile.

                “So, what do you have in mind instead of that gown? The one you were working on yesterday?” Claire asked with interest, picking up a few of the stray papers that had fallen to the floor.

                “Nope.” The brunette answered simply, eyeing a particular sketch critically before tossing it in the wastebasket nearby.

                “Oh?”

                Andy shook her head, disposing of yet another unsatisfactory sketch with a disapproving quirked brow.  Claire raised a brow of her own in question.

                “No? Then the ensemble from last week? I really like those.”

                “Nope, I’ve got something new.” Andy answered, still immersed in the sketches in her hands.

                “Something new? Can I see it?” Claire asked, handing the papers she had picked up.

                The brunette slowly raised her head to look up to her friend and assistant.

                “Nope.” She said, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

                “Why ever not?” Claire replied defensively.

                Andy simply shrugged her shoulders.

                “I just can’t” she said, hiding behind a chuckle.

                Claire’s brow furrowed together.

                “Andy, just let me see the sketch. Heck, let Cecilia see it too, if she’s modelling for it.”

                “I don’t have the sketch.”

                The assistant’s eyes widened.

                “What do you mean, you don’t have it?” she asked cautiously.

                “I mean, I have it, but you still can’t see it” Andy raised a finger to interrupt whatever Claire was preparing to say in frustration “because it’s right here.” She tapped that same finger to her temple, finally letting her chuckles flow free.

                Claire let out a frustrated sigh.

                “It’s in your head? Come on, Andy, be reasonable. You won’t have time to finish.” She reasoned.

                “Of course I will.” The brunette retorted, clearly still in a playful mood. “I’ll have the sketches finished tonight, then maybe Miranda can give me her input at brunch tomorrow. Then once she leaves, I’ll get to it.” She explained simply.

                “Really? And do you plan to sleep at all?” Claire quipped with a smirk.

                “Sleep is for the weak.” Andy returned before sticking out her tongue.

                Claire just rolled her eyes. It was no use arguing with the woman, once she set her mind to anything, it was next to impossible to change her mind. She slowly made her way out of the room, tutting.

                “I’d get a couple of hours in if I were you” she said as a warning. “Your _stuff_ tends to get _really_ puffy when you’re running on fumes.”

                Andy threw a pen at her.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in a week? Well, don't get used to it, but I owed you guys something.
> 
> ~Naralanis

                Miranda sipped absentmindedly at her scalding hot coffee as she went through a few notes Nigel had sent her from New York. By some sort of miracle, preparations for Milan seemed to be going according to plan despite her absence. Nevertheless, she would undoubtedly shake things up once she got back, depending on how brunch went today. She hoped Andrea would agree to the unexpected manoeuvre, especially after she had to spend hours on the phone with an infuriated Guillermo Santorini from _Runway Italia._ The man was almost as famous for his explosive temper as Miranda was for her petrifying glares, but at last, she managed to talk some sense into him. The fact that _Runway Italia_ had not been doing as well as expected didn’t hurt her argument either. She sighed. The plan would probably keep Guillermo at the helm for a little while longer, provided that Andrea agreed to it, but Miranda was already aware of Elias-Clarke’s plans to substitute him. Not that she mentioned it to him, of course.

                The next part of her little scheme would be contact the viper that was Jacqueline Follet at _Runway France,_ which was the last thing Miranda wanted to do, but it would be a necessary evil. Still, she would wait until after Andrea had given her consent. The only reason she had contacted Guillermo before meeting again with the brunette was because Millan Fashion Week was already upon them— there was absolutely no time to lose.

                Eliza made her way into the suite as discreetly as she possibly could, which was not, in fact, discreet whatsoever. Still, Miranda did her best to ignore her fumbling assistant and continued to review Nigel’s notes.

                “Miranda, the car is ready. Claire Murdoch called, she said Ms. Sachs is expecting you.” She said, refusing to look her mercurial boss in the eye.

                The fashion maven held back a sigh and glanced at her watch. Indeed. Although she was looking forward to the meeting, the prospect of going through a horde of paparazzi was never an exciting one, even if she was terribly used to it. Unfortunately, their nosiness required them to meet at Andrea’s home instead of neutral ground, which bothered the silver-haired editor more than she would ever admit. It did seem counter-productive; if the bloodhounds went crazy after a simple meeting at a restaurant, what would the rags say after _the_ Miranda Priestly was spotted walking into the private home of Alexandra Saxton?

                She wickedly smirked to herself. Anna would absolutely hate it, which she supposed was a silver-lining.

                “Very well. That’s all.” She spoke disinterestedly, dismissing Eliza with a noncommittal wave of her hand.  

               

                Once safely ensconced in the luxurious town-car, Miranda steeled herself once again for the meeting she was about to have. Usually she was awfully sure of herself, but Andrea had shown it was necessary tread carefully around her multiple times. The Editor sorely hoped it was Andrea she was meeting, not Alexandra. The bizarre duality between the two puzzled her at the worst of times, but she could mostly understand the transformation. Once upon a time there was a similarly stark, contrasting duality between Miriam Princhek and Miranda Priestly, until the latter completely overshadowed sweet little Miriam, with her iconic hairdo, her American-accented venomous voice and her withering glare.  

                Miranda couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but for some absurd reason the thought of sweet little Andrea being buried under the icon that was Alexandra Saxton brought a painful twinge of her soul, not to mention her heart. She would ignore the guilt that came with it too, as if she were personally responsible for the switch.

                Her musings came to an end as the car came to a smooth stop in front of a beautiful townhouse. Miranda had to admit, the house itself was incredibly stylish, obviously a renovated stately home from a century or so back. There was a small black iron gate encircling a lovely, well-maintained front garden. The windows on all four floors were obscured by thick curtains behind them, the shades of which Miranda noted complemented the house perfectly. Her stomach suffered an uncomfortable spasm; as beautiful as the house was, she could not imagine Andrea living in such a place. Alexandra, maybe, but not the Andrea she once knew.

                Before she could ponder it further, Miranda noticed that the garden and surrounding areas were inconspicuously void of reporters. It was definitely strange, as they had hounded Alexandra Saxton relentlessly since her reveal. It was impossible to escape their coverage completely, even though Miranda did her best to deliberately ignore anything they printed. She checked the house number, and was assured she was at the right place when she spotted the gleaming golden 17 on the doorjamb.

                The driver opened her door, and barely acknowledging the gesture with a nod, Miranda stepped out exuding her usual confidence. Her Prada heels clicked menacingly on the pristine porch much like they did at the marbled lobby of Elias-Clarke. The front door was opened swiftly before she could even think about knocking, revealing the blonde assistant Miranda had already been acquainted with.

                “Welcome, Ms. Priestly. Please, do come in.” Claire said with a polite smile.

                Miranda held back the eye-roll that always threatened to come about with the ‘Ms. Priestly’ thing. She nodded cordially and stepped in as Claire hastily clicked the door shut behind her.

                “Do forgive Andrea for not greeting you personally. She went for a short ride around town so the reporters would scatter before your arrival. She didn’t think you’d like them around when you got here.” Claire spoke softly, while taking Miranda’s coat.

                Miranda cold not help the widening of her eyes in surprise. So that explained why the yard was so curiously empty. The gesture unwittingly reminded her of the Andrea who broke her back working at _Runway_ , always trying to reach that extra mile.

                “That was very considerate of her part.” She said.

                Claire simply nodded and motioned for Miranda to follow her through a tastefully lit hallway. Their heels clicked through the polished hardwood floors, and the Editor could remember a time Andrea would not be able to stand, much less walk on such a surface while wearing five inch heels.

                The parts of the house visible while Claire led her to the study were tasteful, yet more subdued than the house’s exterior. I truth, it all looked like a decorating catalogue. Everything held an odd but pleasing mixture of modern with rustic, the elegant furniture complemented by the artistic portraits adorning the walls.

                Once they reached the study, Claire turned to the Editor once again.

                “Please help yourself to anything you would like. If you need anything, ring the bell and the housekeeper will attend to you.” Claire clarified briefly, gesturing toward a table to the side of the room.

                Miranda nodded once again in acknowledgement.

                “Please have a seat. Andrea should be back shortly.” The assistant continued.

                “Thank you, Ms. Murdoch.”

                The older woman almost laughed when the blonde’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. To the assistant’s credit, she composed herself remarkably quickly before giving a half-bow and exiting the room without another room.

                Miranda took a moment to take a look around the study, and was surprised to see that it did not follow the decorating pattern from the rest of the house she had seen. Whereas the foyer and hall retained a bit of rustic charm, they were implemented with a modern sharpness and coolness one would not find surprising for a high-end designer. But the study was another matter altogether.

                Miranda found herself surrounded by books, on shelves that went from floor to ceiling, which was so high up rolling library stairs were attached to the enormous shelves so the tomes at the very top were accessible. An array of comfy chairs seemed to be scattered about the room if compared with the methodical and calculated placement of the furniture she had seen until now. It was… _cosy._ The room held some kind of altered Victorian charm with its deep browns and greens while retaining a comfort that screamed Andrea Sachs to Miranda.

                The Editor could not help a smile as she sat on the ridiculously comfortable leather couch in the middle of the room. Now this she could see Andrea in; it certainly matched her warm, gentle personality she had known all those years ago. The rest of the house seemed too cold for the younger woman.

                Her observations on the décor were stopped when she found herself being watched by a gleaming pair of eyes from within the shelf facing the sofa she was presently sitting at.

                _‘What on Earth…’_

The swift flicker of a tail gave her observer away.

                A cat.

                Miranda automatically tensed as the feline graciously slithered down the shelves without making a sound, never breaking eye contact. Its tail swirled softly, and its whiskers shook as the animal sniffed the air, eyeing the silver-haired woman with a curious gaze. Miranda immediately narrowed her eyes to slits, as if daring the cat to go any closer.

                It would come to a surprise to most people that, given her feline grace and mannerisms, Miranda Priestly was decidedly _not_ a cat person. Sure, Page Six seemed to picture her as a Bond villain, stroking a cat softly while cackling maniacally, but Miranda was much more accustomed to dogs. Cat’s personalities clashed with hers tremendously. The late Patricia had been more than a suitable companion, as was Lady, the Dalmatian the twins had acquired for her birthday a year after the Saint Bernard’s passing. As mundane and unimaginative the name the girls had given the dog was, Lady was, well, a lady. She was well-behaved enough that Miranda even allowed her on the couch or her bed on occasion.

                But _cats?_ Who had any control over cats? They were too stubborn, too proud and too independent. There was no loyalty to be expected from a cat, unlike a canine.

                No, sir. Cats and Miranda had way too much in common.

                The cat slowly padded its way over to where Miranda was sitting, and without any warning jumped on the couch. The Editor sent one of her best glares its way.

                “You are _not_ coming over here. This skirt is from Valentino and you are not to be near it. Do we understand each other?” she spoke directly to the creature, mildly aware that talking to a cat probably signified some degree of insanity.

                The feline narrowed its eyes, mirroring Miranda’s gaze almost perfectly. It certainly looked like it was about to disregard her direct orders and jump onto her skirt, Valentino or not.

                Another reason to dislike cats. Claws usually went rather horribly with couture.

                Before the defiant animal could execute its vile, couture-destroying plans, shouts from outside the door startled both woman and feline.

                “Minnie! Minnie, where are you?”

                Miranda frowned, both at the childish voice and at the name it was calling out. Something told her it belonged to the cat currently having a stare-down with her.

                “Minnie? What an unfortunate name.” she mumbled without thinking. As much as she disliked the things, ‘Minnie’ was certainly a ridiculous name for a creature as elegant as a cat. To her surprise, the striped tabby seemed to look at her as if saying ‘I agree. Ridiculous.’

                Suddenly the door to the study was yanked open quite loudly. At first it seemed to have done so all on its own, as Miranda couldn’t immediately see anyone who could have possibly done it from where she sat. However, clumsy but delicate steps could be heard entering the study, and before Miranda could stand up to take a better look at the intruder, a brown-haired little head with huge mocha-brown eyes came into view from behind the arm of the couch furthest from the Editor.

                “Hello there.” The little head said with a wary smile.

                “Hello” Miranda rasped out in response, taken aback by the intensity of those brown pools. The kinds of which she had only seen once before.

                “You’re Miranda Priestly.” The girl said nonchalantly, while she climbed onto the couch, collecting the cat into her arms as she did so.

                The older woman raised an eyebrow, her head still reeling with how eerily familiar the girl was. She was practically identical to Andrea. This could only be her daughter. Right?

                “I am well aware” she responded at first, grimacing at the cold tone she used by rote. “And who might you be?” she added more warmly, hoping her iciness would not send the girl into a crying fit. It wouldn’t be the first time.

                Surprisingly, however, the girl seemed to be entirely unaffected by her coldness, not even noticing. Instead, she offered her little hand in polite introduction.

                “I’m Allie. Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

                Wondering what sort of alternate reality she had been thrown into, Miranda took the girl’s hand and shook it delicately.

                “Hello, Allie. I assume that is short for Allison?” she asked, immediately bothered by nicknames.

                The girl frowned.

                “No. My name’s Alice.”

                Miranda tried for a kind smile.

                “Then that is what I will call you, if you don’t mind.” She said, hoping her tone was at least somewhat affectionate. There were only two people in the world with whom Miranda succeeded in that, and they were called Caroline and Cassidy.

                The little girl’s brows furrowed a bit more as her frown deepened.

                “Why? Don’t you like nicknames?” she asked, contemplative.

                “I’m not particularly fond of them, no.” Miranda answered truthfully.

                “Well” Alice said, shrugging her shoulders “Then this is Minerva” she said, raising the cat so it was eye-level with the silver-haired woman. Miranda did her best not to lean away. “I usually just call her ‘Minnie’, but if you don’t like nicknames I guess you can call her Minerva.”

                The Editor couldn’t help but think that Minerva was certainly a much better suited name for a cat. She didn’t know why it sounded so familiar. To her chagrin, Alice held out Minerva’s paw, clearly expecting Miranda to shake it as well. She smiled nervously at the girl, who spoke to the cat, trying to convince her to ‘shake’. It would have been adorable if Miranda were not the one expected to ‘shake hands’ with an animal with sharp claws.

                “Come on, Minnie, shake hands with Miranda.”

Miranda’s nervous smile intensified into a twitch at the corner of her lips, but she daintily grasped Minerva’s front paw in her hand and shook it very cautiously so as not to stir the animal to the point of clawing. Once that particular bizarre endeavour was completed, she let the paw drop gracefully, the twitch finally subsiding.

                “Minerva likes you. It’s funny, usually she doesn’t like strangers.” The girl said, clumsily, and without warning, dropping the feline onto Miranda’s Valentino-clad lap. The twitch returned.

                The Editor tensed again once Minerva began kneading her paws into the fabric, clearly making herself comfortable for an extended stay. In less than ten seconds the feline was curled into a ball onto her lap, giving her a victorious look before finally settling.

                “You can pet her, look. She purrs.” Alice demonstrated, running her dainty little hand over the cat’s fur, encouraging Miranda to do the same.

                With a discreet roll of her eyes, Miranda tentatively began stroking the surprisingly soft fur on a spot she thought least likely to warrant a surprise attack. The two sat in silence for a few moments, petting the cat. Miranda wondered if she was having some particularly vivid dream.

                “Well” Alice said after a while, clapping her hands together. “I should go. I’m not supposed to be downstairs yet, I was just looking for Minnie. Minerva.” She explained with an impish look on her face.

                Miranda nodded, glad for the reprieve she was seemingly getting.

                “It was nice to meet you, Miranda Priestly. I really like your magazine.” The girl said with glee.

                Miranda’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head.

                “Thank you, Alice, I’m glad you enjoy it.”

                The little girl’s smile was blinding, and went from ear to ear.

                “I really like it. I think _Runway_ is the greatest magazine, like, ever! _Runway Britain_ is OK, I guess.”

                “Thank you very much, I share your sentiments.” Miranda said, then her mind registered what the girl had actually said. “What do you mean, _Runway Britain_ is ‘OK’?” she asked.

                “Well, your stuff is a lot cooler. Mum gets the American edition delivered here too, so we always go over it together. Is my mum going to be on _Runway?”_ she asked, quite rapidly.

                Miranda avoided bristling at the word ‘stuff’, deciding to make allowances for a six-year-old she had just met.

                “That is what I am here to discuss.” She answered, assuming the girl was Andrea’s daughter. There was absolutely nothing that indicated otherwise; if she had found the girl perambulating the streets alone, she could probably take her to her mother just by looking at her: it was amazing how similar they were.

                “Gee, I hope so. Claire said she could maybe go to _Vogue,_ but I don’t like _Vogue_ as much. Plus, your hair is much cooler.”

                Not above receiving flattery from a child, Miranda gave a rare, genuine smile.

                “Thank you, Alice, I’m glad you think so.”

                “Just one thing.” The girl said suddenly, quickly raising herself on her knees. Before Miranda could even think about it, a little hand delicately grasped her signature forelock from where it was slicked back and brought it to rest on her forehead.

                “There” Alice said, with a satisfied smile. “Now you look more like Miranda Priestly. Your hair is really soft!”

                Usually, the intrusion would have had Miranda seeing red— _nobody_ touched Miranda Priestly. That was usually rule number one on the handbook. However, this was not some minion who was scared out of his or her mind by her mere presence; this was a child with whom she had shook hands, a child who had unceremoniously dropped a cat onto her lap, and, perhaps most importantly, a child who was entirely too adorable to warrant a patented Priestly glare.

                “Well, I should really go now, before mum gets here.” Alice said.

                “It’s a little too late for that, missy” said a voice from the door, startling both Alice and Miranda along with Minerva, who dug her claws into Miranda’s skirt. The Editor rolled her eyes, but was thankful her skin was intact. Cats.

                Alice whirled towards the door, her smile as sheepish as the look in her eyes. Andrea leaned against the entrance to the study, her arms crossed and eyebrow quirked in disapproval, though her expression was soft.

                “We’ll talk about this later, Munchkin. Go on upstairs and keep yourself occupied for a bit.” She said firmly, but kindly.

                Alice groaned unhappily, picking Minerva up once more.

                “It was nice to meet you, Miranda.” She repeated, offering her little hand once more.

                Miranda did not hesitate this time as she shook the girl’s hand with some enthusiasm, aware of Andrea’s inquisitive yet amused gaze.

                “It was lovely to meet you as well, Alice.” She said truthfully.

                The little girl beamed at her, before sauntering out of the study with a rather disgruntled cat in her arms, sparing her mother an apologetic glance on her way out. Andrea simply winked at her and closed the door behind her once she was gone.       

                Finally turned to meet her guest appropriately, Andy beamed an exact replica of the girl’s smile from moments before.

                “Hello, Miranda. Sorry for the delay.” She said.

                “No apology necessary. Hello, Andrea.” Miranda said with confidence. After that smile, she was almost certain she would not be seeing Alexandra Saxton today.

                Not even a little bit.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, three updates in a week?? Don't get used to it, folks. Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

               

                Andrea slowly made her way through the study. Stopping by the side table. She unveiled a carafe of what looked like orange juice, glistening with the condensation.

                “Mimosa?” she offered politely.

                Miranda quirked her brow, but shook her head.

                “No, thank you. I’ll stick with coffee.”

                Like Claire before her, Andrea also seemed surprised to hear the polite words leave Miranda’s mouth. Still, she smiled and went about preparing their drinks.

                “One skim milk, no foam, triple shot scalding hot latte coming right up” Andrea said playfully as she fiddled with the coffee maker at the end of the table, making it loudly hiss away the steam. Miranda’s eyebrows shot upwards on her forehead.

                “You remember.” She stated in surprise.

                Andrea gave a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders.

                “It’s probably deeply ingrained in the brains of every assistant that lasted more than a week at _Runway._ ” She replied, taking a healthy swig of her mimosa.

                “After eight years?” the silver-haired woman prodded.

                “I have a _great_ memory.” The brunette quipped, handing Miranda a piping hot mug.

                “Or the experience was traumatic enough to scar you for life.” The Editor muttered after relishing in the taste of the perfectly made cup of coffee. Glancing over at Andrea, she noticed that the younger woman had her mouth hanging open, giving her a funny look with her deep mocha-brown eyes.

                “What?” Miranda asked somewhat self-consciously. Was it something she had said?

                Andrea forcibly shook herself from her surprise.

                “Sorry, it’s just a little bizarre to hear you making jokes so offhandedly. I think I went into shock there for a little bit.” She explained with a wry grin.

                Miranda just huffed haughtily.

                “I am known to be rather witty at times.” She intonated in mock hurt.

                “It feels oddly normal” Andrea conceded, her grin never waiving for a second. “I mean, you have to admit it’s not a side of you any of your assistants get to see… At least it wasn’t in my time” she finished cheerfully

                “Don’t be ridiculous. All they get to see is the Dragon Lady” Miranda muttered dryly.

                To the Editor’s surprise, Andrea scoffed.             

                “I never thought of you as a Dragon Lady” she whispered, seemingly more to herself than to Miranda. The older woman rolled her eyes.

                “Well, there are many other names to choose from” she half-joked. “The Ice Queen, La Priestly, the Devil in Prada… Take your pick.”

                The brunette barked out a laugh.

                “Ice Queen is the most believable of them all” she said with a tone that made the joke clear “I mean, your death glare literally froze people in place! It’s like you can turn them all to stone.”

                The Editor could not help a chuckle of her own.

                “’Medusa’ seems like an appropriate addition then” she quipped.

                They kept in silence for a few moments. Andy refilled her mimosa and motioned for Miranda to sit once more.

                “I’m sorry if Allie and Minerva were bothering you before I got here.” She said with a smirk that belied the sincerity of the apology. Miranda simply waved her off.

                “It was no bother, at least concerning Alice. Your cat, on the other hand, is quite another story.” She said, as Andrea laughed.

                “I am so sorry about your skirt. I’ll pay for it.”

                “You’ll do no such thing” Miranda responded snappishly. “I must have some kind of proof of what I endured with that beast.” She added sarcastically.

                Andrea simply stared at her for a couple of seconds.

                “I’m really surprised by this witty side of you, Miranda. It’s refreshing.”

                Miranda smirked openly before taking another sip of her coffee. She paused for a few moments before changing the subject.

                “How old is Alice?” she asked after a little while.

                “She turns six in a couple of weeks” the brunette clarified.

                “Ah. I was not aware that you had a daughter.” Miranda said absentmindedly. “She _is_ your daughter, is she not?” she asked belatedly for confirmation, even if the answer was already quite obvious from matching smiles and doe-eyed gazes.

                Andrea just chucked as she fiddled with her glass.

                “Yes, she’s mine” she said with a smile. She paused, raising a questioning eyebrow at Miranda. “You didn’t know? Shocking, considering that the reporters have latched onto her for quite a while since Fashion Week.” She finished sourly.

                Miranda frowned.

                “No, I haven’t…” she let her sentence hang in the air, her frown deepening into a scowl. She had meant to say that she had not kept up with the tabloids and gossip rags out of courtesy, but her train of thought was suddenly interrupted by flashbacks of Caroline and Cassidy, five years of age, cornered by the hordes and assaulted by the blinding explosions of camera flashes during her divorce from their father. Memories of the vicious hordes of reporters and photographers hounding her darling girls, along with their tears of fear and anger over the unfairness of it all sprang to mind, along with the countless careers she had turned to dust in order to keep them out of the fray. Her followed-through threats mattered very little in the end, because there was always another fool willing to risk it all for the perfect picture.

                A sudden realisation came upon Miranda in a gasp, making her set her mug onto the coffee table rather abruptly.

                Andrea tensed once she saw the flicker of emotion pass through the Editor’s deep azure eyes. Once upon a time she had been so intrinsically in tune with the silver-haired icon that she knew when the latter had a headache before Miranda knew it herself. She had excelled in her position due to her innate ability and ease to read the mercurial woman’s moods like an open book.

                What had just flickered in those blue orbs just then, however, had been completely different from an emotion Miranda had ever allowed to show at _Runway_ , save for one exception, which Andy attributed to some kind of temporal fluke: that one night eight years prior, when she witnessed the rawness of Miranda the woman, after her third husband cowardly messengered the divorce papers to her in the middle of Fashion Week.

                It was an upsetting mixture of sadness, regret, and most surprisingly, guilt. The brunette had never thought she would witness such a particular blur of feelings in those icy blue eyes. Not since the fluke. Not since Paris.

                “Miran—” she began, only to be immediately interrupted.

                “I never knew. If I had known” Miranda choked out. “If I had known you had a child, I would have never…” she trailed off.

                Andrea almost spit her mimosa out. Would have never what?

                Almost immediately, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. If Miranda had known about Allie, she would not have threatened to expose Alexandra Saxton in the way she did.

                As unbelievable as such a notion would seem to pretty much anyone else, Andy at once believed it wholeheartedly. She had known, she had witnessed first-hand the extents to which Miranda had gone to ensure that the press left her daughters alone. Children did not deserve that kind of attention.

                “You couldn’t have known.” The brunette said softly. How come she was now comforting Miranda Priestly? Had she been transported to some alternate reality?

                The Editor didn’t seem convinced.

                “Honestly, Miranda” Andrea continued “No one knew who the Hell Alexandra Saxton was, how could you, or anyone else for that matter know she had a daughter?”

                “Did Emily know?” Miranda asked solemnly.

                Andrea shrugged.

                “That’s kind of how this came about. She bumped into us at the start of Fashion Week. Then the rest is history” she chuckled dryly. “She obviously didn’t tell you.” She added.

                “I wish she had. Then your daughter would not have had to go through all this.” Miranda murmured sincerely.

                “What’s done is done” was the brunette’s demurred answer.

                For a few moments, all the two women did was look intently at each other. Miranda spoke first.

                “Andrea, I need you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.” The silver-haired woman whispered, her gaze never wavering from the brunette’s deep brown eyes.

                Andrea sat up straighter, listening intently, hanging onto every word.

                “I am only going to say this once, and I expect you to know that I mean it, truly.” Miranda took a long, steadying breath before continuing, taking a mental note of how Andrea’s grip on her glass tightened considerably in expectation.

                “I am genuinely sorry for what your daughter has; or rather, will still go through” she raised a hand to silence Andrea before the brunette could interrupt.

                “I will not apologise for doing what I did to _you_ , as despicable as it may have been. You are a grown, powerful woman who can undoubtedly handle whatever may come your way. The same cannot be said for a child. Alice did not deserve to be swept away into a situation such as this.” She finished and sat back against the cushions, sipping at her coffee once more.

                To say Andy was taken aback was likely the understatement of the century. She had heard Miranda say “Thank you” and “I’m sorry”, on the same day nonetheless! If this did not prove her alternate reality theory, she didn’t know what would.

                Still, she believed every word, as odd as it may seem. Miranda had never felt so genuine and sincere, and if she had to admit, it was a wonderful thing to witness.

                Miranda Priestly could be many things. She was as cold as she was ruthless. She could be vicious and downright cruel. Yet, Andy knew better than anyone that Miranda Priestly always meant every word she spoke. So she knew she had to accept the honest apology, and it delighted her to even have the option available.

                “Thank you, Miranda.” She said sincerely, sending the Editor one of her famous smiles.

                Funnily enough, Miranda then seemed to be uncomfortable.

                “Yes. Well.” Was all the said before returning her attention to her cup of coffee.

                Andy’s smile widened. Obviously this particular venue of conversation was over

                “Well, I think we were here to discuss Milan? And some fashion magazine, what was it called again?” she said in jest.

                Miranda rolled her eyes, thankful for the change in subject.

                “ _Runway,_ I believe it was called.” She retorted.

                Well, you wanted to see whatever I happened to have.” Andrea said, motioning towards a near pile of folders stacked on a side table next to Miranda.

                “May I?” the Editor asked, setting down her coffee.

                The brunette smiled.

                “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” she retorted.      

                Miranda shot a subdued glare her way.                

                “Cheeky.” She muttered, reaching over and picking up the first folder, which was thick with a great number of papers. Andrea merely watched as Miranda’s eyes widened at the sheer volume

                “Is all of this for Milan?” the Editor exclaimed in disbelief.

                “Yup.”

                “How did you manage to do so many? In such a short time?” Miranda asked, visibly confused.

                “That’s not all of them. Those are only the ones I found acceptable” the brunette chuckled to herself at the term.

                “Gracious, how much more is there?” Miranda whispered, seemingly to herself.

                Andrea did not miss even a beat to answer.

                “That’s about a third of what I originally had.” She clarified. “So, there are twice as many sketches that won’t be used.”

                Miranda’s blue eyes got impossibly wider.

                “Twice as many?” she whispered. How was that possible? Each of these was simply exquisite, not even taking into the account the astonishing amount of detail.

                Andrea shrugged.

                “Eh. I work a lot” she said simply, as if it made complete sense.

                Miranda had no answer. She was hypnotised, turning pages like an automaton specifically constructed for that very purpose. Along every wonderful sketch, there were notes, measurements, colours and patterns. A mess of scattered thoughts gained form and took shape with each detailed sketch.

                It was beautiful. All of it.

                “How many do you have ready?” she asked, running her fingers over a particularly pleasing page.

                “A little more than half of those are primed and ready for Milan” Andrea answered promptly.

               

                Miranda raised an indignant eyebrow.

                “Half? Andrea, I assume you are aware that Milan Fashion Week is practically upon us? Be realistic.” She chided.

                “But I am” Andrea retorted “They’ll be ready by then, Miranda, don’t worry about that.”

                The Editor deliberately avoided pursing her lips. That was not the kind of message she wanted to send. However, if Andrea did not have all of her pieces ready at least a couple of days before the start of Milan Fashion Week, it would throw a wrench in her plans. It was rather unlikely that Guillermo would hold off printing any longer than absolutely necessary, even with the promise of Alexandra Saxton for his magazine.

                “These designs are all wonderful, Andrea.” She said cautiously, measuring her words. The last thing she wanted was give the brunette the wrong idea. “They would be welcomed in _Runway,_ certainly.”

                Andrea quirked an eyebrow.

                “I’m sensing a _but_ there.” She said truthfully.

                Miranda closed the folder she held with a sigh. It was better to cut to the chase.

                “Do you know who Guillermo Santorini is, Andrea?”

                The younger woman rolled her eyes.

                “Editor-in-Chief of _Runway Italia._ Not for long, from what I hear.” She answered, her expression still puzzled.

                “And I assume you remember my… _dear friend_ Jacqueline Follet?” Miranda said, almost spitting the French woman’s name out in disgust.

                To her surprise, Andrea’s expression of disdain at the mention of Jacqueline mirrored her own, and it brought an odd sense of satisfaction in her chest to see it.

                “Yeah, EIC at _Runway France…_ again, somehow. Where are you going with this, Miranda?”

                The silver-haired woman set the folder down on the coffee table.

                “After our most recent meeting, I had an idea, which I would like to discuss with you today.”

                Andrea’s expression hardened into a calculated mask of disinterest.

                “Go on.” She said.

                “As much as I would like to feature you on _Runway_ straightaway, I suggest we… wait.”

                The brunette was visibly confused.

                “Wait? What for?”

                Miranda controlled her tone, trying to find the best way to say it without angering the brunette.”

                “After our dinner, I contacted Guillermo at _Runway Italia._ I asked him if he would be willing to hold off printing for the Milan Fashion Week special edition for a little while, so he could add a few spreads to it.”

                Andrea’s eyebrow quirked in understanding. Before she could say anything, however, continued.

                “If, and _only if_ you agree, I thought you could be featured on _Runway Italia_ for Milan. Then, on _Runway France_ for Paris. After that, we could discuss your publishing on _Runway,_ good and proper.”

                Andrea seemed to ponder in silence for a few moments.

                “Does Guillermo know which designer he’s supposed to hold his magazine off for?” she asked.

                Miranda’s look was as close to sheepish as a Priestly could probably ever achieve; it was not natural.

                “Well, I had to convince him holding off printing would be worth it.” Miranda clarified.

                The brunette laughed.

                “So Alex Saxton _is_ worth it… Good to know. But what about Jacqueline?”            

                The older woman bristled.

                “What about her?”

                “Would you be OK with _Runway France_ getting Alexandra Saxton before you?” she teased, half-meaning it.

                Miranda answered after a monumental roll of her eyes.

                “Oh please. Anna Wintour had Alexandra Saxton before me, and I seem to still be breathing. No doubt Jacqueline’s over-inflated ego will reach inconceivable proportions, but she can think what she will. I’m not done yet.”

                Andrea quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

                “After Paris Fashion Week, I’d like for you to get into contact with Elizabeth James at _Runway Britain._ ” The silver-haired woman explained.

                “So, _Runway Italia, Runway France, Runway Britain…_ Am I missing something here?”

                Miranda’s famous shark-like grin tugged at her lips.

                “Not at all, Andrea. If you are willing, I’d like to arrange for your publishing on each of those magazines respectively. That is, until Autumn.”

                “Autumn?” Andrea asked, visibly confused.       

                Yes. Autumn. What happens then, Andrea?”

                Understanding dawned upon mocha-brown eyes.

                “You want to publish me on _Runway_ for New York Fashion Week.”

                Miranda chuckled.

                “Yes. See, you’re not so slow after all.” She said.

                Andrea shook her head.

                “Miranda, I’ve never been to New York Fashion Week. _You_ were there.” The brunette exclaimed.

                “Indeed, I often am” the silver-haired woman joked. “I am there, as I am here. There is no difference; the world knows who you are now, there is no reason not to go.”

                The brunette clasped her fingers together, seemingly deep in thought for a long moment. Miranda was getting impatient, but she would show no sign of it. She would not pressure Andrea into anything. Not this time.

                “You’re right.” Andrea finally said. “There’s no reason not to go.”

                “Wonderful. Although, you know that if you agree to this plan, you’ll have to hurry with your pieces for Guillermo.” Miranda warned.

                “Not a problem” Andre guaranteed. “It’ll be a rush, but I’ll have them ready.” She assured.

                “Good. Now, there is one more thing in New York this Autumn.” Miranda began again. “I’d really appreciate it if you were a part of it.”

                Andrea steeled herself before asking.

                “And what would that be?”

                Miranda’s shark grin returned full force.

                “The commemoration of my twenty years as Editor in Chief, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I broke 50,000 words! O.O This is by far the most I've ever written. Thanks for sticking with this until now! This is not even close to being done, we still have a lot coming our way!


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

                Andrea spied the dwindling group of reporters in her front yard through a miniscule slit in her curtains. Dark circles marked her tired, red eyes. She had been working non-stop for most of the week, and she was more than exhausted. Her fingers were adorned with a multitude of plasters of varying shapes, sizes and patterns. It was never a terribly good idea to be around scissors and needles and pins when functioning solely on copious amounts of caffeine.

                She fiddled with an R2-D2 Band-Aid on her forefinger, which brought a smile to her face. Allie had had quite a bit of fun playing nurse and providing first-aid to her sleep deprived mother. Andrea had feared that the little girl would revert back to her temperamental self if she worked too much. Luckily, Allie had seemed content to watch TV or read her books in the same room while her mother worked relentlessly. Every now and then, she would be delighted to help around, by bringing pieces of fabric or fetching papers and other little odds and ends. All in all, she seemed to have had a great time, and Andy was thankful for that.

                As she looked at her cut and punctured fingers, Andy ran through each and every piece she had finished, all messengered over to Milan a little before she got there. She’d be leaving in just two days, taking Claire along as usual. Allie would unfortunately stay behind with the nanny/housekeeper Mary. Andy really hadn’t wanted to do it, but the press had not died down as much as they had hoped, so she and Claire had taken it upon themselves to explain it all to the little girl. Allie had taken it surprisingly well, asking only for a photo album so she could see the sights of the city as well. It had been so adorable and sad that Andy’s heart clenched; she had vowed then and there to find some way to take pictures around the city so her little girl could get to know the sights before she was able to go with her. That _would_ happen, because Andrea was capable of anything.

                Andy heard a soft knock on the door and whirled around to see Claire tentatively entering the sitting room she was in. The blonde was unsuccessfully trying to hide a grimace, so she obviously did not have good news to bring.

                “What’s going on?” Andrea asked, worried at the blonde’s expression.

                Claire slowly made her way towards her and flopped ungracefully on the couch.

                “I just spent about an hour on the phone with Guillermo’s people. I had forgotten how rusty my Italian was.” She muttered by way of explanation.

                “So? What happened?” Andy pushed, unsettled.

                “Well, we’re going to have a problem with your spread.” Claire said.

                “What kind of problem? Were any of the pieces damaged in transport?”

                Claire held her hands up to calm the brunette.

                “No such thing, all of the pieces are accounted for and perfect.”

                “What is it then? Issues with the models?”

                “No, models are all a-OK”

                Andy sat next to her assistant, huffing in impatience.

                “What is it then, Claire? Spit it out!”

                “First of all; I tried everything. I told them over and over you wouldn’t do it if he’s the photographer to do it, but they absolutely insisted he’s the only one available and I—”

                “Godammit Claire, who’s photographing?” Andrea exclaimed in frustration.

                Claire took one deep breath before continuing.

                “Arturo Bosco is their photographer for the spread.”

                Andrea froze in place, her expression disdainful.

                “Andy, I tried, I really did. I insisted, and I reiterated that you would not work with him at—”

                “Cancel it.”

                Green eyes widened in pure shock. Claire was sure she hadn’t heard right.

                “What? Come again?”

                “You heard me” came Andrea’s venomous response. The walls had gone up in the blink of an eye, and her scathing tone was not one that Claire cared to hear. “Cancel everything. There’ll be no spread. I’d like my pieces put on storage until I get there for Fashion week.”

                “Andy…”

                Claire immediately got an exclusive, caustic Alexandra Saxton death glare pierced through her flesh and soul. No questions. Just do it. Message received.

                “Right on it.” She said with a sigh, moving quickly to stand up and deal with the oncoming headache this mess was more than likely to cause.

 

* * *

 

 

 

                “No.” A pink dress fell to the floor dejectedly.

                “Hideous.” An oddly shaped turquoise blouse followed the same way.

                “Disgraceful.” There went another dress, this time in a garish shade of green.

                “Why isn’t anyone _ready_?” Came the frigid tone that froze everyone present in place.

                Miranda Priestly was in the middle of giving her staff yet another well-deserved reprimand for their awfully uninspired solutions. Jocelyn seemed to be on the verge of tears. Good. Maybe they’d wash her eyes and she would be able to see better and pick suitable pieces for the coming spread.

                “Are we putting out a fashion magazine, or a high school’s ‘worst dressed’ column? Have you all woken suddenly colour-blind?”

                “W-well, we were hoping t-that the clashing overtones would cre—” a minion stopped his brave, but foolish attempt at an explanation when a particularly cold glare came his way. It was simply not worth it. Judging by the silver-haired woman’s expression, there was little he could do to avoid being sent home with his things by the end of the day.

                Luckily for the frightened minions, the dressing down was interrupted by the polite knocks of Miranda’s first assistant.

                “Miranda, Guillermo Santorini is on the line, he says it’s urgent.”

                The fashion maven rolled her eyes before sending another glare towards her staffers who lived to disappoint another day.

                “That’s all” she murmured, making her way towards her sleek desk, relishing in the sounds of her staff scattering away. She gracefully lowered herself onto her chair and took a deep breath before picking up her flashing phone.

                “Guillermo, dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she said softly, with another roll of her eyes.

                “ _Quella puttana! Quella ragazza ostinata!!_ That obstinate, ridiculous woman! She –gonna make me miss my deadline! You and she, the both of you, the doom of me! _La merda, il due di voi!_ ”

                Miranda non-too-subtly jerked the receiver away from her ear. Guillermo was widely known within the industry for his short stature and matching temper. She was glad not to be in his presence; he sputtered saliva when angry. It probably evolved from some sort of defence mechanism found in some amphibians.

                “Guillermo! _Inglese, per favore!_ What seems to be the problem?”

                “That-that Alexandra Saxton is _il problema, cara_ Miranda! She refuses to do _il_ spread _per la rivista!_ She refuses to be on the magazine!”

                Miranda immediately bristled. What on Earth was he on about? She and Andrea had discussed it; Andrea had agreed to have Alexandra Saxton’s pieces featured on _Runway Italia, France_ and _Britain_ respectively.

                “What do you mean, she refuses to do the spread? We have discussed it, quite at length, I might add, and she has agreed to be featured on _Runway Italia.”_ Miranda exclaimed, puzzled.

                “Well,not anymore! She refuses to work with _mio fotografo!”_

                “She won’t work with your photographer? Why ever not?” Miranda asked. Andrea did not seem to be one of those atrociously irritating diva designers. She simply did not seem like the type of artist to be picky about such things.

                “She give no reason! _Assoulutamente nessuna ragione!_ No reason whatsoever! Her assistant say she will not work with him under any circumstance!”

                Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose.

                “Well, can’t you get another photographer?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. With Milan Fashion week so close ahead, Guillermo would have a terribly hard time to find photographers able to fit in a whole spread in their schedules at such short notice.

                “No! _Tutti occupatti,_ they are all busy! Besides, he’s the best, _il migliore!_ He jumped at the chance to work with her, but she will have none of it!” he screeched into the phone, prompting Miranda to jerk the receiver away once more. Honestly, was there a volume button for this machine?

                “Who is this photographer?” she asked, intent on getting to the bottom of the situation.

                “You know him, he’s in New York finishing a shoot for _GQ._ He’s supposed to get on the first flight tomorrow morning.”

                “Who is he, Guillermo?” she asked again, frustrating at having to repeat herself. Dealing with Guillermo required enormous amounts of patience, something Miranda had very little of to begin with.

                “Oh, _sì, suo nome_ is Arturo. Arturo Bosco.”

                Miranda’s eyes widened. Yes, she knew Arturo Bosco: she had discovered him herself a couple of years ago. He had been making waves photographing covers exclusively for _Runway,_ and subsequently a few other approved publications, as well as private shoots with movie-stars and the like. The fact was that he was a rather tiring person to work with; not to mention a complete and utter diva. Still, as infuriating and ill-mannered as he could be, he was one of the very best.

                “Yes, of course I know him. He’s in New York, you say?”

                “ _Sì_ , he’s to come back early tomorrow.” Guillermo clarified.

                Miranda took some notes on her journal, eager to get started.

                “Very Well, Guillermo. Give me a little while to deal with this. Meanwhile; I’ll have my assistant contact Demarchelier. He’s on a shoot for me in Belgium at the moment, but I’ll loan him to you for this spread. He should get there tomorrow morning. I’ll get in touch with Alexandra myself.” She said.

                “ _Grazzie,_ Miranda.” He thanked her, clearly relieved.

                “Yes, well. _Ciao._ ” She finished, hanging up not bothering to wait for another word from the Italian.

                “Eliza? I need to find Arturo Bosco and get him to my office in two hours. He should be in a shoot with _GQ._ I don’t care how he gets here, make it happen. And call Alexandra immediately.”

                There was a barely audible ‘Yes, Miranda’ before the Editor could hear her two assistants scrambling to get her orders fulfilled. ‘New Girl’ Kristen had not yet earned the right to be called by her own name, but by the way she had taken to respond to it, one would think it had always been Eliza from the day she was born. Not that it mattered, of course.

                In a matter of mere minutes, New Girl’s voice carried into her office.

                “I have Claire Murdoch on the line, Miranda.”

                The Editor frowned. She wished to speak with Andrea, not her assistant. She rolled her eyes. It would have to do for now, she thought, immediately picking up the phone.

                “Ms. Murdoch.”

                “Ms. Priestly.”

                Miranda bit the inside of her cheek. Claire Murdoch was probably one of a couple of people who _absolutely insisted_ to call her ‘Ms. Priestly. She loathed that nonsense.

                “Hello, _Claire._ I just had a riveting talk with my fellow Editor-in-Chief Guillermo Santorini. Any guesses as to what our conversation entailed?”

                Miranda heard a huff from the other end.

                “I assume it’s due to Andrea’s refusal to go ahead with the spread if he maintains his choice of photographer.” The blonde retorted.

                “And why, pray tell, is Andrea refusing to work with Arturo Bosco? I did not peg her as the picky type.” Miranda quipped, annoyed.

                “She isn’t. Send literally _any_ other photographer and she will be more than willing to work with them. Just not Bosco.” Claire dead-panned, clearly resolute.

                “Why not Arturo Bosco? I need a reason.”

                “And I am not at liberty to give you one.” The assistant shot back.

                Miranda was caught by surprise, but the answer just made her all the more eager to get to the bottom of this. Whatever reason there was for Andrea not to for with Arturo, it had to be a good one.

                “And if there are no other photographers available?” Miranda tried.

                “Then Anna Wintour will have a field day. I’ve kept the _Vogue_ contracts she sent over, you know. Just in case.” The blonde retorted, unfazed.

                Miranda bristled instantly.

                “Is that some kind of threat?” she snapped, her voice at its lowest degree.

                “Not at all. Just a reminder that _Runway_ is not Andrea’s only option.” Claire quipped.

                The Editor huffed indignantly. Andrea certainly knew how to pick them; that assistant of hers was like a guard dog, but much more exasperating.

                “You can shred them; they won’t be necessary. Patrick should be getting into Milan by tomorrow morning. I trust Andrea will find him suitable for the spread?”  

                She was met with silence from the other end. A small smirk of triumph tugged at her lips; she had clearly taken the woman by surprise. Miranda Priestly would _not_ lose her chance at publishing Alexandra Saxton to the likes of Anna Wintour. Not again.

                “Claire?” she asked, her voice taking on a sing-song tone that made clear she was aware of the blonde’s surprise.

                “Yes, Demarchelier will do nicely. Andrea will be pleased, and sends her regards.” Claire intonated, defeated.

                “Very well. That’s all.” Miranda hung up, already pensive. It really was just her luck that Arturo was in New York, maybe he would have some insight to this matter. Whatever prompted Andrea to be so stubborn, not to mention specific in her refusal had to be personal. And if Andrea would not speak to her, she would find another way.

               

* * *

 

                To be entirely honest, Miranda was actually rather surprised with ‘New Girl’ once she managed to get Arturo Bosco in her office with half-an-hour to spare. Perhaps Kristen had earned her real name after all. She motioned for the lanky Italian to come in, already rolling her eyes as his too-familiar antics. Italians.

                “Well, Arturo. So nice to meet you again, it has been a while.”

                “Yes, yes, it has. Lucky I’m still here, I was supposed to be on a flight home tomorrow morning.” He quipped.

                Miranda raised an eyebrow.

                “Was?” she prodded.

                He waved her off.

                “Change of plans.” He explained evasively.

                “Did those plans have anything to do with the Saxton spread for _Runway Italia?”_ she asked, satisfied with his surprised expression. He laughed nervously.

                “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you know about it. Such a shame, I really wanted to get that spread, but it seems Ms. Saxton is not a fan of mine.” He muttered sourly.

                “Yes, such a shame.  I was rather surprised by her refusal.” She intonated, gauging his reactions.

                “Eh, well, you can’t win them all, I suppose.”

                “I was quite shocked at how visceral her refusal was” Miranda continued, her voice airier than normal. “It makes me think that she has a more… personal reason to be so adamant that you not be there.” She finished, content with his shocked look.

                “Y-yes. Well. Alexandra is… complicated.” He stuttered, clearly uncomfortable.

                “What do you mean, by that, Arturo? Do you know why she absolutely refuses to work with you?”

                Suddenly Arturo’s face turned bitter with underlying anger.

                “Oh, I know it alright. I thought she could be professional about it, but she clearly won’t be.” He said, his voice full of irritation.

                It was Miranda’s turn to look shocked. What was he on about?

                “Explain.”

                “Alexandra, or rather, Andrea and I have history, and we are not in the best of terms.” The Italian said simply.

                Miranda gave him a scathing look.

                “What do you mean, not in the best of terms?” she asked.

                Arturo was fuming, taking deep breaths to control himself.  He looked directly into the Editor’s icy blue eyes before speaking in a harsh, angry whisper.

                “We’re not in the best of terms because she is keeping my daughter from me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOUR UPDATES, IS NARALANIS INSANE??
> 
> Yes, she's gone completely off her rocker. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, initially I had one huge chapter that I decided to split into two. This is kind of the first part of it, I decided to split it so I could tweak the second part a bit more. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. It had been about five days since Arturo Bosco revealed the nature of his past relationship with Andrea. Milan Fashion Week would officially start on the day after the next, and her _Runway_ team had just arrived in the city, going directly to their hotel.

                She flipped the pages of the mock-up of the special edition of _Runway Italia_ that Guillermo had sent her, due to go to print at the opening of Fashion Week. The Saxton spread was exquisite, as Miranda had known it would be; Andrea’s work always was. Patrick had done wonderful things with her pieces for the shoot; she made a mental note to utilise him again for upcoming Saxton features.

                Truthfully, Miranda should be working with the rest of her team in the flurry of activity that always preceded any Fashion Week. However, her mind was otherwise occupied, specifically with her ex-assistant turned fashion icon the supposed father of her child.

                After Arturo dropped that bomb onto her lap, she simply could not let it go. So, out of common courtesy, she called Andrea. Numerous times. Each and every time she would be stone-walled by that guard dog that the brunette called an assistant. The message was quite clear, the younger woman was deliberately avoiding talking with Miranda. Whether it was about Arturo Bosco specifically or just talking to Miranda in general, the Editor was not sure. All she was sure of was that she wanted answers. And she clearly would not get them directly from the source, so she did the next best thing.

                She hired a private investigator.

                She really had not wanted to go to such extremes, but Andrea was making it difficult. Arturo certainly seemed to be rather disgruntled about the whole situation, but for whatever reason, she did not think he was being entirely truthful. At the very least he had not told her the entire certain.

                Call it a mother’s intuition, or simply the Priestly sixth sense, but Miranda did not believe him entirely. First of all, if Arturo wanted his daughter back, why not go directly to the press? In her mind, undermining Alexandra Saxton’s reputation as a vile mother who purposefully kept her child away from its father had some merit. The Editor knew for a fact Arturo was not too noble for that. So why hadn’t he gone to the press?

                Secondly, and perhaps most importantly in her doubt of the man’s sincerity, was her experience with her ex-husband, her girls’ father. He certainly put up quite a fight to keep them by his side from day one of the divorce proceedings, because he loved them. As dreadful as he had been as a husband, he was a doting and caring father, and Miranda not foolish enough to ignore the truth. But for whatever reason, she did not get a ‘fatherly concern’ reading out of Arturo.

                The truth was, she had known Arturo for a few years; the man was not parent material. What he had in talent he lacked in maturity, and his womanizing had been a problem, both at _Runway_ and at other publications he worked with. So she had a little difficulty believing he would suddenly be eager to accept fatherhood and all the responsibilities that came with it.

                Andrea, of course was another matter. Miranda would like to say the girl had more sense than to mix with Arturo’s kind, but she really couldn’t. God knew Christian Thompson bragged about her wayward assistant for months after that atrocious Fashion Week in Paris. Still, Andrea did not seem like the kind of woman to deny her child a fatherly figure for no reason whatsoever.

                So, Arturo had more than likely not told her the whole story, and Andrea kept ignoring her.

                Hence, the private investigator. Because what Miranda Priestly wanted, Miranda Priestly got. And at the moment, she wanted information.

                Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, the silver-haired icon wondered why she was even bothering with it in the first place. So what if Andrea and Arturo had a child? There were plenty of others with custody battles around. There was nothing special about that one.

                Well, nothing except that it had almost jeopardized her plans to sweep the fashion world with Alexandra Saxton on the wings of _Runway._ Nobody messed with her magazine.

                A knock on her door interrupted her musings.

                “Miranda?” came Eliza’s shy voice from the other side of the door. “Mr. Walden is here for his appointment.” She clarified.

                Miranda put down the mock-up. The P.I. was there.

                “Send him in.” she called.

                Time to get some answers.

 

* * *

 

 

                “Bloody Hell! She could have at least dropped a hint, couldn’t she?” screeched a British-lilted, rather impatient voice.

                “Emily, take a moment and think about who the ‘she’ is in the equation.” Nigel said with a roll of his eyes.

                “You have a point. What does this mean, though? I’d thought that she’d get Alexandra Saxton to New York at the first opportunity. Why is she dawdling with _Runway Italia_? She had to be in on this, Guillermo isn’t smart enough to get Saxton on his own” the redhead clarified.

                Nigel released a sigh. Who, besides the Queen herself, knew what Miranda was up to? The woman was an enigma. But one thing was for certain; she definitely was not ‘dawdling’, as Emily had put it. Miranda Priestly always had some kind of agenda. Whether she made that agenda known to others was entirely to her discretion. More often than not, she chose not to.

                “Of course she’s in on this. She’s got something up her sleeve, I just don’t know what.” He said, just as puzzled as his co-worker.

                Emily grabbed the mock-up from his hands, turning the pages of the spread they were presently analysing.

                “It is rather wonderful. Patrick did really well, and Andy’s pieces are… Well, they’re Saxton pieces, so of course they are flawless.” She pointed out.

                “Have you spoken to her at all since London?” Nigel asked, legitimately curious. After the chaos that entailed after the grand reveal of their former co-worker as the elusive Alexandra Saxton, he had yet to hear from the brunette again.

                “Not really” Emily admitted sheepishly. “After that bloody mess, we talked once. She was meeting with Miranda, and there was talk about being featured on _Runway._ I didn’t know she meant _Runway Italia,_ though.”

                The spectacled man scoffed, running a hand over his bald head.

                “She probably didn’t. She’s based in London, so logic says she would probably go to _Runway Britain_ first. But since this is a special Milan Fashion Week edition, I’m willing to bet my next salary that Miranda arranged it with Guillermo.” He said, sounding sure of himself.

                “Rather poor showmanship from Miranda though, especially after that _Vogue_ stunt.” Emily added.

                “Oh, Emily.” Nigel said, shaking his head at his co-worker’s enduring naiveté that sprang up at times. “She isn’t done. Whatever it is that she’s up to, Miranda Priestly will make damn sure we _know_ exactly when she’s done.”

  

* * *

 

                The silver-haired woman regarded the man sitting across from her intently, looking for any signs of deceit. Philip Walden was one of the best in his field; he, along with an incredibly successful (not to mention expensive) team of lawyers had guaranteed that she emerged victorious out of every single divorce proceeding she had ever had. Thanks to him, she was able to send her latest ex-husband on his merry way with nary a penny in his pocket, due to a rather unflattering candid shot of him and his barely-of-age secretary. She had Philip to thank for that particular photo, and her team of lawyers for the iron-clad prenup.

                Therefore, it was a no-brainer to turn to him when she needed answers that no one else was willing to give, and quickly.

                “Are you absolutely certain?” she asked, swirling the Macallan she had poured them in her glass absentmindedly.

                Philip shuffled a couple of papers he had brought along with him.

                “Yes, yes, I’ve got copies of everything right here. First of all, your photographer: shady guy. He’s got unresolved paternity suits in like three continents.”

                “And I assume that this one is just another of those unresolved suits?” she asked, dreading the answer.

                “Not really actually. This is the only resolved one.” He answered, surprising her.

                “Come again?” Miranda said, shocked. If it was resolved, why would Andrea be keeping his daughter from him, his personality aside? What could he have meant?

                “It’s the only resolved one because he signed a Voluntary Termination of Parental Rights. That Andrea girl, she was thorough too; there are documents for Italy, the UK and the US all outlining pretty much the same thing. The things are written in stone; he has revoked any and all access or rights to the girl.” Philip clarified, pointing out a few excerpts on the papers he had scattered over the coffee table.

                “I tried to get something out from the girl’s side, but there was nothing there. She’s one private lady.” He commented sourly.

                “Yes… She would have been even more so if fate hadn’t intervened and had her bump into my Junior Editor in London. The rest, as they say, is history” she quipped nonchalantly.

                “If he signed them, it may explain why he hasn’t gone to the press. Counter-productive, if they get wind of it.” Philip pointed out. Miranda merely nodded.

                “But why lie to me? There’s no reason to. If he signed a Voluntary Termination, Andrea is not keeping the girl from him. He gave her up.” Miranda commented, her voice cold as ice.

                “Well, I don’t have a reason, but I did some digging, and I might have found something interesting.” Philip added, taking a gulp from his glass.

                “Oh?” Miranda prompted.

                “All of these” he motioned towards the scattered papers “were signed before the kid was even born. In almost six years, he never even wanted to hear about it. Then, it seems he started to privately reach out to her only a couple of weeks ago. What happened then for him to suddenly gain interest?” Philip finished pensively, as if already knew the answer.

                Miranda was sure he knew. Hell, she knew.

                “Andrea revealed herself as Alexandra Saxton.” She murmured.

  

* * *

 

                For the first time ever, Alexandra Saxton was present, in the flesh, at other shows during Milan Fashion Week. That was probably even more astounding than the unexpected spread she was exclusively featured in on _Runway Italia._ The press’ interest was sparked anew, and everywhere she went was a throng of reporters following. So to say that having Miranda Priestly, the Queen of Fashion, go directly to her during the Versace after-party was momentous was likely to be an understanding.

                The cameras went wild.

                It was quite an odd thing to see. They both went in through opposite entrances, each with her own assistant trailing behind dutifully. The look on Donatella Versace’s face when Miranda Priestly barely spared a ‘good evening’ was quite priceless. Instead of lingering, the Dragon Lady made her way straight to the recently unveiled designer.

                Andrea was clearly surprised to see Miranda ignore most of the other patrons at the after-party and go straight towards her, a look of pure determination on her face. The silver-haired woman pulled her in for her customary air-kiss and social embrace. The brunette nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the Editor’s lips brush against the shell of her ear in an airy whisper.

                “There are things we must discuss.” She said simply, pulling away with her most artificial social smile plastered onto her face as was usual in such events. Andrea mirrored the fake grin expertly.

                “What about? I assumed your _dear friend_ Jacqueline would be present for the _Runway France_ discussion.” She said, her social smile widening slightly as she spoke.

                Miranda echoed a fake laugh, as if they were talking about the most funnily mundane subject in the universe. Truth be told, to any onlookers, it probably seemed like Miranda Priestly and Alexandra Saxton were sharing a _joke._

                There was no telling what could possibly be more bizarre.

                “This does not concern Jacqueline.” Miranda quipped, her voice taking on its sing-song quality when she was particularly impatient with something.

                “Rather, it concerns a certain photographer you refused to work with.” She finished, taking Andrea by the arm and taking a turn about the room, nodding to several other patrons in their way, as if they were just normally having a conversation, both of their assistants following a couple of feet behind.

                Andrea immediately bristled, both at Miranda’s words and at her tone. Her tight smile only wavered slightly.

                “That doesn’t concern you.” She said, her caustic voice hidden behind calculated coolness.

                The silver-haired Editor tightened her grip onto the brunette’s arm, as a warning.

                “On the contrary” she retorted, her usual venomous tone masked by layers of measured casual niceties “it most certainly _does._ We discussed a project, Andrea, a plan. Your unwillingness to work with Arturo jeopardized that plan.”

                “I don’t see how.” Andrea retorted, this time not bothering to hide her scathing tone. “Patrick was available. The spread was done. No problem.” She added, visibly irritated.

                “Demarchelier was on another shoot in Belgium, for _me._ I gave you another option, so I expect an explanation. Arturo was quite vocal about you, so I think it’s only fair I hear your side of the story.” She sent another fake smile towards the brunette, releasing her from her grip. Before the younger woman could respond, Miranda began gliding away, but not before turning to face Andrea and whispering.

                “Twenty minutes. My car will be waiting.”

               

                  


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, lookie, a chapter! Enjoy :)
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                Miranda stared out of her car windows in impatience, not even noticing the lights and people that made up the thriving nightlife of Milan during Fashion week. Exquisitely dressed people roamed about the cobbled streets, their elegance and posture mixed with the ethereal lighting of nearby venues making them seem like incarnations from fairy tales.  The Fashion Editor, however, ignored them all with a distinct purse of her lips, one that disclosed her present irritation and, though she would never admit it, doubt.

                To Miranda Priestly, there was only one way of doing things: her way, which other people should consider as the right way from the very start. If they did, everything would be so much easier from the get-go. She would not have had to fire half the people she had ever fire if that rule of thumb was followed to the tee. She certainly would not have been divorced as many times as she had.

                Then again, if the Miranda Way truly was the only way, she would not have been left high and dry in Paris eight years ago. If the Miranda Way truly was the only way, she probably would not have had a monstrous face-down with her ex-assistant. If it _was_ the only way, Alexandra Saxton would not exist. So maybe, just maybe the Miranda Way was not the only way. Other people did seem to have other ideas quite often.

                Still, Miranda stood by it. It made her life easier, most of the time. The jury was still out on its effectiveness against certain people. She was still one to one on its efficacy against Alexandra Saxton. Or Andrea Sachs. Whichever the fiery brunette fancied to be at any given moment.

                The Editor chided herself mentally. It would not do to underestimate that powerful juxtaposition between Andrea and the iconic designer. God and the rest of the world knew where that had gotten her in the first time.

                Therefore, tonight she only wished to talk to the brunette. Just talk about that ridiculous Arturo Bosco business. The figure of little Alice popped into her mind, and Miranda internally grimaced at the thought of the photographer being the girl’s father. Thank God she had taken after her mother almost entirely, Miranda thought to herself, thinking of the girl’s mocha-brown eyes that made for an exact copy of the doe-eyed gaze her ex-assistant used to direct her way.

                A knock on the driver’s window interrupted her train of thought. Frowning, she noticed a uniformed young man, maybe a server from the venue she had just come from, attempting to talk to her driver. The driver nodded and the young man handed him a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, running back from wherever he had come from after that. Her frown deepened when the driver lightly tapped the partition to speak to her.

                “ _Sì?”_ Miranda asked, annoyed.

                The man fumbled with the piece of paper, handing it backwards over his shoulder.

                “ _Uno mesaggio per voi, signora._ ” He simply stated as she took the folded paper from his hand.

                Raising a puzzled eyebrow, Miranda delicately unfolded the note. She huffed in annoyance at the message, written in black ink in an increasingly familiar handwriting.

 

_Via Filodrammatici w/ Piazza Della Scala_

_My car will be waiting._

_A.S._

 

                The silver-haired Editor suppressed the violent urge to crumple the pretentious message in her hand. Instead, she took a deep, calming breath and folded the paper exactly as it was. Yet another example where the Miranda Way was blatantly ignored by those around her. Andrea was giving her no options. At the thought Miranda scowled. She was not known by her generosity when it came to choices either.

                Annoyed at the brunette’s antics, she rolled her eyes, running a hand through her wild forelock. Something told her that the night would definitely take a downward turn. Angry, she turned back towards her driver.

                “ _Guidare!”_ she snapped, somewhat placated once the sleek Mercedes started moving over the cobbled streets, smoothly making its way towards the point Andrea had indicated.

                The whole drive seemed to take forever, even though it was probably less than ten minutes in total. The designated location was curiously empty and fairly darkened, save for the low-lights of an idling Rolls Royce at the opposite curb. Miranda could not help but roll her eyes yet again. What did Andrea expect, for her to cross the street into her car?

                After only a couple of minutes of the old waiting game, Miranda’s impatience finally gave out. With only a look at her driver and a terse command to ‘wait here’, the silver-haired woman angrily flung her own door open, slamming it shut with unusual force. Her Valentino heels clicked furiously against the street as she crossed.

                Before Miranda could open the back door once she reached the car, a uniformed young man got out from the driver’s seat, opening her door with a curt, and britishly accented “Ma’am” aimed her way with a tip of his cap. Without even acknowledging the driver, Miranda slithered into the vacant back seat with as much grace as she could muster, only looking at the brunette on the other side once her door had been gently closed.

                Andrea had her legs crossed, and she seemed to be texting. Miranda opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced by a daintily raised finger. She huffed once she realised she was being made to wait. The brunette certainly seemed to be taking her sweet time, so Miranda just made herself comfortable.

                Looking over at where Andrea was seated, Miranda noticed what the younger woman was wearing perhaps for the first time in the evening, which was shocking, considering she usually was on the alert for such things. Nonetheless, she noticed the younger woman wore an off-the-shoulder emerald dress, clearly of her own making. The elegant slit that showed a good expanse of creamy skin from the brunette’s leg screamed Alexandra Saxton, along with the fitted bodice and golden filigree detailing on the shoulder clip. Her shoes, Miranda was — for some insane reason— pleased to note, were Prada.

                “There you go” Andrea suddenly said, putting her phone down. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I needed to beat this level.” She clarified, with a shark-like grin Miranda knew mirrored her own all too well. It was more than a bit disconcerting, both the calculated smile and the fact that she had been made to wait for a _game._

“Excuse me?” She snarled in her coldest tone. “You made me wait for a _videogame?_ ”

                “Well, you have a limited amount of lives in _Candy Crush._ I’m not paying for more lives, so I have to make them count.” Andrea explained, clearly enjoying pushing Miranda’s buttons.

                “God knows you can’t afford them” the silver-haired woman retorted sarcastically, gesturing around the car’s luxurious interior.

                “I waste money on the good stuff. I’m not too far gone on _Candy Crush_ to spend money on it.” The brunette said simply, with a delicate shrug of her shoulders.

                Miranda huffed indignantly.

                “Pray tell, where is that dutiful assistant of yours?” she asked disinterestedly.

                “Claire is taking your car back to your hotel while we go for a ride.” Andrea replied nonchalantly, tapping the privacy screen separating them from the driver. Miranda felt the car smoothly start to move, and whirled her head towards the back window just in time to see a tall blonde getting into her chauffeured Mercedes.

                “I beg your pardon?” she exclaimed, furious.

                “Don’t worry, Claire is extremely reliable.” Andrea retorted. “But you probably knew that already.”

                “Then what is the meaning of this? Am I being kidnapped?” Miranda snapped.

                “Of course not, Miranda” the brunette replied softly, her shark grin intensifying. “We’re just talking.”

                “Is that so? And may I enquire as to where we are going while we… talk?”

                “Just for a ride. Milan is a beautiful city at night.” Andrea responded, making a show of looking out of the window at the passing lights.

                Miranda bristled intensely at the brunette’s attitude, her voice dropping to its lowest degrees possible.

                “By what sort of right—”

                “Yes, what right do I have to make demands like this. Like _talking._ Or, I don’t know, sending a fucking _private investigator_ to get information on something that does not concern me at all. Oh, wait. That’s you, isn’t it, Miranda?” Andrea exclaimed suddenly, taking Miranda by surprise. At the silver-haired woman’s look of shock, Andrea laughed haughtily.

                “Oh, what, you think you’re the only one with your little network of informers and the like? I know Philip Walden, Miranda. We’re more alike than I thought.” She added bitterly.

                Miranda just scoffed.

                “I needed information. When neither you nor your assistant were forthcoming, I had to utilise my own means.” She said, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation.

                Andrea clearly was not having it.

                “ _You_ needed information? Are you sure you needed it, or were you just being meddlesome?! Didn’t you stop to think that maybe there was a reason you were not privy to it?” she whispered harshly, her hands curled into fists on her lap.

                Miranda sent one of her best glares her way.

                “There was a situation that threatened my magazine. It couldn’t stand.” She said simply.

                “ _Your magazine?!_ I’m sorry, should I call Guillermo and inform him he is being unseated a bit early? As far as I know, Miranda, _Runway_ was not involved in this at all. The spread was for _Runway Italia.”_ She said caustically. Miranda let out an airy, sarcastic laugh that only served to incense the brunette further.

                “Oh, Andrea, I really thought you had left your days of foolishness behind. Of _course Runway_ was involved. Have you forgotten the whole point of having Alexandra Saxton sweep across Europe? Two little words: New York. Ringing any bells?” Miranda asked with another roll of her eyes.

                “Even so, the spread was not for New York _yet._ It was for Milan. You should not have had anything to do with it.”

                Miranda’s glare got a couple of degrees cooler.

                “Don’t be an idiot, Andrea. I had _everything_ to do with it. Who do you think had this whole idea in the first place? Who do you think painstakingly convinced Guillermo to hold off printing to feature Alexandra Saxton? Who do you think is letting Jacqueline— _Jacqueline Follet!_ — have her for Paris Fashion Week? Who got Demarchelier to leave a shoot and run off here to work with you? It was me, and it was all for you. So really, you should learn to be a little more grateful” she said, finishing with a scoff.

                “I should be grate-… Grateful?! Miranda, you’re not doing this for me. You’re doing this for _you._ You want Alexandra Saxton for yourself. For _Runway._ And I’m prepared to give her to you, but you have to _work. With. Me.”_ Andrea snarled.

                “And what do you think I’ve been doing? Did I or did I not send Patrick running off to Milan when you refused to behave professionally and work with the only photographer had on hand?” Miranda retorted, her eyes narrowing into slits.

                Andrea refused to answer, turning her head once more to look at the window. She let out a frustrated sigh, running her hand through the brown tendrils of hair that had begun to escape the stylish up-do she wore. Her free hand on her lap was still tightened into a fist, her knuckles white from tension.

                Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes for a moment.

                “Perhaps getting Philip into it was not the best way to proceed.” She conceded.

                It was Andrea’s turn to scoff.

                “You think?” she retorted bitterly.

                Miranda ignored he brunette’s bitter tone.

                “When Guillermo told me you would not work with Arturo… I needed to know why. I know you’re not the type of person to behave unprofessionally without a good reason… past experience notwithstanding. And then Arturo began talking. And talk he did. He accused you of keeping his daughter away from him. Painted quite a malicious picture of your character.” She added.

                Andrea bristled slightly, seemingly trying to keep her temper in check. Miranda continued.

                “So I needed to know. I needed to know I had reason to doubt him; that your character had not been corrupted in such a way. I know what kind of man he is. So when I couldn’t get what I needed from your guard-dog Claire, I just went by my own means.”

                Miranda chanced a look at the younger woman beside her. Andrea still looked demurely out the window, but her hands had relaxed slightly. The Editor prepared herself for what came next.

                “I apologise for being, as you put it, meddlesome. I just needed to know I was right.” She said.

                Andrea turned to look at her, and Miranda was surprised to find those expressive brown eyes filled with unshed tears. Without taking the time to think about it, she reached over and took the brunette’s free hand in her own, squeezing it lightly.

                “And it turns out I was. You’re still, deep down, the righteous Andrea I used to know. And I feel strangely comforted by that fact.” She mused, genuinely puzzled. To her surprise, Andrea barked out a teary laugh.

                “Good God, I must be in the Twilight Zone. Miranda Priestly has apologised to me. Twice! And now she’s holding my hand, trying to be all comforting. This is the weirdest day.” She added, squeezing Miranda’s hand in return.

                “Yes, well.” Miranda responded, suddenly not knowing what to do with the hand she was now holding. She felt silly, which she hated. To avoid thinking about it, she turned to face Andrea once more.

                “In any case, I’m glad I was right.” She murmured.

                Andrea simply nodded before speaking.

                “We met at one of the minor Saxton shows in Paris. It was a mistake; all of it. It seems I’m prone to them.” She said softly, seemingly more to herself than t Miranda. “But when I told him, well… He made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. Called me plenty of names too.” She added with a frown.

                Miranda listened intently, afraid to speak and interrupt the brunette.

                “So when I found out what kind of guy he was… I took care so he would never have any contact with her. At all. He signed everything pretty quickly.” She took a deep breath.

                “Right after the Saxton reveal, immediately after almost, he began to get in touch with me and Claire. First he just rambled how he had a right to see his daughter, called me some other names for ‘keeping her from him’, and threatened to have his lawyers challenge the Termination of Parental Rights. I didn’t worry; they’re written in stone. When that tactic clearly didn’t work, he began sending flowers, calling daily saying that he had changed, and that he wanted to meet his little girl and be involved in her life. When I still refused, he went back to plan A: being an asshole about it.” She finished with a sarcastic scoff. Finally, she turned to Miranda.

                “And that’s the whole story.” She finished with a sigh.

                Miranda unwittingly squeezed the brunette’s hand again.

                “Thank you. For telling me.” She said simply. They both spent a few minutes in silence, watching the lights pass them by from their respective windows.

                “It is a wonder how a delightful child such as Alice is in any way related to the likes of Arturo Bosco. What a tiring, bothersome man.” Miranda suddenly said, contemplative.

                To her delight, Andrea laughed.

                “Miranda, you met her for a total of ten minutes, in which she literally dropped a cat on your lap. You _hate_ cats.”

                Miranda turned to her, shocked.

                “How do you know that?”

                “I walked Patricia, remember? Plus, just your face when Minerva was settled to stay said it all. It was really quite obvious.” Andrea joked.

                Miranda just huffed indignantly, though Andrea could swear she had heard the silver-haired woman mumble “irksome little creatures” or something along those lines. A real smile tugged at her lips.

                “In any case, thank you. She adores you, you know.” Andrea said.

                “Who, your daughter?” Miranda asked, clearly surprised.

                “Oh, yeah. She loves _Runway._ Everything is ‘Miranda this, Miranda that, Mommy, when are you going to Miranda’s magazine?’. I think I broke her heart when I said the most recent sketches were going to _Runway Italia._ She also doesn’t _Vogue_ all that much.”

                A rare smile made itself known on the fashion maven’s features.

                “Yes, I seem to remember she said my hair was ‘a lot cooler.”

                Andrea snorted.

                “Don’t even get me started. Claire used to have short hair, and all Allie wanted was for her to style it like yours.” She said.

                Miranda sniffed.

                “Hmpf. I doubt she could ever pull it off.” She quipped.

                Andrea laughed once more, the sound warming the whole vicinity.

                “Jesus, this is so weird. I’m having a friendly conversation with Miranda Priestly.” She said, her voice mirroring her apparent disbelief. Miranda just rolled her eyes.

                “I see no reason why we couldn’t be… friendly.” She said matter-of-factly.

                “Besides Paris, blackmail, backstabbing, manipulative bullshit, and you being ‘meddlesome’, you mean?” Andrea quipped amusedly.

                “Well, yes. Besides all that.” Miranda retorted, waving a hand in the air in dismissal, making Andrea chuckle light-heartedly.

                “Well, if we put that behind us, I can see us being friendly.” The brunette said.

                “I’m in agreement.” Miranda conceded.

                “Just a question” Andrea said, suddenly looking very serious. Miranda nodded, motioning for her to continue.

                “If we’re ‘friendly’, as you say” she emphasised the word with air-quotes “does that mean I get to call you out on your bullshit?” she finished with a grin.

                To the brunette’s surprise, Miranda laughed.

                “I have the feeling you would do that regardless.” She retorted with an amused grin.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, just to get some other things going. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                Miranda sat quietly at her tastefully luxurious room at the Armani Hotel, looking over the selection of documents Philip had left her with concerning Arturo Bosco. The evening and unexpected drive with Andrea had ended in a rather positive and hopeful note, but the photographer still nagged at the recesses of her ever-active mind. So much so, in fact, that she had asked Walden to follow up on the rest of the paternity suits involving the Italian. Miranda briefly wondered if this was considered as being ‘meddlesome’, but she needed to analyse the situation. Depending on Arturo’s behaviour, he would no longer be representative of _Runway,_ and since it did not involve only Andrea, Miranda felt she deserved a pass.

                There was no denying that Arturo was an incredibly talented photographer, but if his behaviour was less than exemplary, Miranda would have no qualms about cutting him loose. She would not allow for that to hurt her magazine. In fact, she had gotten more than a little defensive when thinking about his appalling behaviour towards Andrea. The Editor shuddered thinking about how many other women he had possibly directed that behaviour toward. He clearly wanted to be in on all that Saxton publicity, one way or the other. Miranda could only be glad that the brunette had the presence of mind to procure the Termination of Parental Rights, which at least prevented Arturo from going directly to the press and making her life a living nightmare. A grimace marred Miranda’s lips at the thought of what that would likely mean for little Alice. For whatever absurd reason, she found that her frigid stone heart held a soft spot for the little girl, despite her recent misadventures with the Sachs family cat. Probably because Alice thought her hair was ‘cool’.

                A determined knock interrupted Miranda’s musings. Her current Art Director did not even wait for her directive allowing him to come in, choosing instead to enter by his own volition, which earned him a particularly cold glare. Seemingly unfazed by it, Nigel made his way towards the armchair facing the Editor, sitting down with a serious expression. He crossed then uncrossed his legs, clearly impatient, eyeing Miranda intently. The silver-haired woman just kept her constant glare, refusing to be the one to start the conversation.

                After fiddling with his scarlet De La Renta tie for about five whole minutes, Nigel finally got tired of it.

                “Alright, Miranda” he said, obviously not in the mood for niceties “I’ll bite. What’s with _Runway Italia_ featuring Alexandra Saxton? Before you?” he asked, directing a pensive gaze her way.

                Miranda simply sniffed haughtily.

                “I’m sure I don’t know why you think that matters. _Vogue_ had her before anyone else, after all.” She stated nonchalantly.

                Nigel simply rolled his eyes.

                “Yeah, but now it’s a whole different ballgame. You’ve wanted her for the magazine for years. Something happened when you met, and judging by the theatrics of that Saxton reveal, you more than likely pissed her off. Then, all of a sudden you’re sending _your_ photographer to help Guillermo with a Saxton spread for _Italia,_ and walking around arm in arm with Six like you’re all made up. What’s going on?” he demanded, irritated by Miranda’s forcibly disinterested expression.

                “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nigel. It’s all business.”

                The bespectacled man bristled.

                “Like Paris was business the year that she left? I’m not blind, Miranda. What do you have on Six to make her go to _any Runway_ publication after she wanted nothing to do with you?” he pointed out bitterly.

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “For your information, my _dear Nigel_ ” she snapped “We’ve come to a mutual understanding.” She finished sharply.  

                “And what sort of understanding might that be?” he prodded.

                “Not that it concerns you” the Editor began harshly “but I have arranged for Alexandra Saxton to be featured on _Runway Italia, France_ and _Britain_ respectively.” She said.

                Nigel’s eyes widened.

                “ _Runway France?_ You’re letting _Jacqueline_ have her?! After-after—”

                “Good God, Nigel, have you suddenly gone daft? Of course not. She’ll only be on one edition for Jacqueline.”

                “And then?” Nigel said, sensing that there was something more to it that Miranda was not letting on.

                “And then” Miranda said, a wicked smirk tugging at her lips “Alexandra Saxton will be featured on _Runway,_ for New York Fashion Week.” She finished, interlacing her manicured fingers together.

                Nigel’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head with shock.

                “New York? Alexandra Saxton has _never_ been to New York Fashion Week.” He stated dumbly, prompting Miranda to yet another roll of her eyes.

                “Which is why it will be quite a momentous occasion. Almost as momentous as her reveal, which, sadly, no one can compete with. But I will not need to miss a deadline to accomplish, so I find that it is really quite an acceptable situation.”

                Nigel scoffed in disbelief.

                “How did you manage that? How did you convince her to come back to _Runway?_ After Paris?” he asked.

                Miranda’s glare intensified momentarily, only to soften unexpectedly. If Nigel did not know any better, he would have thought that there was a flash of embarrassment in those icy blues.

                “I did no such thing. It was her own idea.” Miranda said simply.

                Nigel barked out a disbelieving laugh.

                “Are you kidding me, Miranda? Are you saying you did not want Alexandra Saxton for _Runway_?”

                “Now why would I say such a thing, Nigel? I think it’s time for you to get your ears checked. Of course I wanted her for _Runway._ But Andrea had no reservations about coming to the magazine now that she’s found herself in the world” she said, deliberately bending the truth a great deal. There was no need for Nigel to know exactly how Andrea wished to return to _Runway._

                “You _really_ pissed her off at your first meeting. Then she pulls that _Vogue_ stunt. And now it’s business as usual?” he tried to clarify, looking for confirmation.

                “Precisely.” Miranda said.

                “Fine” he said, putting both of his hands up in surrender. “You don’t want to tell me, then don’t. God knows you never do.” He mumbled dejectedly, beginning to stand.

                “Speaking of _business,_ Nigel” Miranda began again rather suddenly, pinning the Art Director to his chair with merely a flicker of her gaze. “There are certain developments I must discuss with you. I originally planned to wait until we were back in New York, but seeing as you’re already here” she waved a hand about by means of explanation.

                “What is it?” Nigel asked, suddenly tense.

                Miranda continued, her cold gaze never wavering for a second.

                “The Paris Fashion Week Edition will be your last.” She said finally, waiting for his reaction.

                “Wha-What are you…” he began to stutter, bristling.

                “Because after that, you will need all the time you can get in order to inaugurate _Men’s Runway_ at my 20 year celebration” she cut him off, finishing her sentence flatly.

                Nigel suddenly let out all of the air contained within his lungs like a rapidly deflating balloon. His jaw went completely slack, and the hands that had suddenly gripped the arms of his chair with extreme, furious tension went lax just as suddenly.

                “Wha… What are you saying, Miranda?” he stammered, resisting an all-consuming urge to pinch himself, while Miranda just huffed.

                “You know how I detest repeating myself, Nigel, so why you would require me to do so is truly beyond me.” She quipped, obviously enjoying his loss for words. “I’ve said, the Paris Edition will be your last as Artistic Director, or my employee at all. After that, at my 20th anniversary gala, I will announce a new Elias-Clarke venture with you at the helm. So, rejoice: after eight gruelling years you’ll finally be rid of me for good.” She said sarcastically, as if talking to a petulant child.

                The bespectacled man still looked like he was struggling to find the words necessary to form complete, coherent sentences.

                “ _Men’s Runway.”_ He choked out.

                “Yes. _Men’s Runway”_ Miranda repeated, with a wicked gleam in her blue eyes.

                Nigel ran a hand over his bald head, then rubbed his eyes, as if afraid he would wake from a dream, the disbelief still painfully evident. Miranda tapped her nails against the polished surface of the side table, impatient.

                “Honestly, Nigel one would think you’d be a little more excited about such an opportunity, especially after the last eight years of constantly trying to leave the Dragon’s Cave.” She said haughtily.

                “I knew” Nigel suddenly said, tears brimming behind his spectacles, to Miranda’s surprise and discomfort. “I told myself I was an idiot, but deep down I knew you would make it up to me, eventually.” He rasped.

                Miranda rolled her eyes, made more uncomfortable by his sudden tears than she would ever care to admit.

                “That is not what this is” she assured him, her voice even airier than normal. “I simply indicated the most capable individual I knew to lead Elias-Clarke’s newest endeavour from the ground up. You will have plenty of struggles ahead of you.” She said, her voice suddenly taking a warmer undertone. “And I have no doubt that you will exceed any and all of my expectations” she finished, taking him by surprise.

                Nigel gave her a goofy smile.

                “I won’t let you down, Miranda” he promised.

                “I surely hope so. I vouched for you in front of the entire Elias-Clarke board. Don’t you dare embarrass me, Nigel.” She said, sounding more like the Miranda he knew.

                “I won’t, I won’t. I promise” he vowed, his goofy grin never leaving his face.

                “There is a lot of work ahead of you. I want you to begin training your replacement as soon as we get to New York.” She said.

                “No problem” he assured her with a wave of his hand “Emily’s almost all set already. She’s been following me pretty closely for the past few years.” He said.

                Miranda’s brows furrowed.

                “Emily?” she asked.

                “Yeah” Nigel confirmed “I’ve been sort of mentoring her. She shows a lot of promise.” He assured her.

                “No” Miranda said suddenly with a subtle shake of her head. “Not Emily. Serena will replace you.”

                Nigel’s eyes widened in confusion.

                “Serena? Well, she’s Head of Beauty, but Emily’s been Junior Editor for quite a while.” He pointed out. “I think she deserves to replace me.” He said.

                “Not Emily” Miranda repeated. “She will get the promotion she deserves and more. But not within _Runway.”_

Nigel’s jaw went slack.

                “Not within _Runway?_ Are you sending her out?” he asked with disbelief.

                “Not entirely. Elizabeth James from _Runway Britain_ is soon retiring. Emily will replace her.” Miranda clarified.

                “What? You’ll move her to _Runway Britain?_ Miranda, you know that she and Serena…” he shut his mouth once Miranda skewered him with her glare.

                “What would their relationship have to do with this? It’s an incredible opportunity for Emily. Unprecedented advancement, she would be a fool not to accept it.”

                “Miranda… That’s not how things work. Not always. Emily wouldn’t want to leave New York unless Serena came with her. They were talking about settling down, maybe starting a family. Don’t take that opportunity away from them.” Nigel pleaded.

                “I won’t make the decision for Emily. She will have a choice to make, a difficult one, but it still is completely up to her. If she stayed, she would likely remain as Junior Editor… indefinitely. This opportunity at _Runway Britain_ is not an offer I or Elizabeth make lightly. Plus” she added “I don’t think Emily would be too opposed to some time back home.” She finished nonchalantly.

                “Miranda, Serena is Emily’s home now. She’ll say no.” he warned her. She merely rolled her eyes.

                “Take care of Serena’s training as soon as we get back to New York.” She said.

                “Emily’s expecting to get the post as Art Director.” He tried.

                “That’s your own fault, isn’t it? In any case, I don’t believe the disappointment will last too long.” She added through a snarky grin. Nigel resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

                “And, Nigel” Miranda began again, before he had the opportunity to stand. “Not a word of this to Emily.” She said.

                He nodded, his previous excitement at his promising future considerably dampened at what awaited his co-workers. His friends.

                “That’s all” Miranda finally said, turning her attention to the stack of papers she had been previously reading before he got there.

                Nigel left without another word.


	22. Chapter 22

 

 

                Andy watched the crowd slowly filter in the venue, taking their respective places before the Alexandra Saxton show from behind the backstage curtain. Her usual neurosis had already come and gone, having her making sure and triple checking that all the models were at the ready and that all the pieces to be presented were impeccable, pristine, and perfect. Strangely, however, there was now an odd sense of calm that she had never before experienced, especially right before a show. Claire had pointed out that now there was no mask to hide behind, at least not like before. The world now knew what Alexandra Saxton looked like, so there was no feeling of dread or sense of panic associated with the possibility of discovery. Andy was inclined to agree with that theory. The jury was still out on whether her nerves would hold once she walked out on the runway herself when the show was over. She could not help but laugh wryly to herself. Of course they would, because once she walked out on that runway, she would own it; or rather, Alexandra would.

                She supposed it probably would be a breeze when compared with the Saxton reveal. However, circumstances then were starkly different. Back then, she had one goal in mind, and one goal only: to get back at Miranda; to show the mercurial Editor in the clearest way possible that she was not under her Prada heel any longer, nor would she ever be. Miranda Priestly had met her match.

                Now, it was a completely different story. Now, she was just another designer parading her work, not to mention herself, in front of her peers. It felt incredibly odd, not to mention more than a bit uncomfortable. At least behind Saxton’s previous anonymity she was safe from that feeling.

                At times, Andy had wondered if the secrecy was the main attraction, the main reason that made Alexandra Saxton so appealing to the Fashion World., if that was what made her so famous and so incredibly sought after. She had begun to fear that the popularity would begin to fade after the reveal, her self-doubt making itself known at the worst of times.

                That fear had vanished into thin air when Miranda had seen her sketches for Milan back in London. The woman’s expression of wonder, amazement and delight was one that filled Andy’s heart with triumph, joy, and a kind of overwhelming pride that harkened back to when she slammed an impossible Harry Potter manuscript onto the surprised Editor’s desk once upon a time. It was an indescribable feeling, and Andy felt it stir deep within the very core of her being whenever an utterly entranced Miranda was perched at the edge of her seat at every Saxton showing she attended. The knowledge that Miranda was still in love with every Saxton piece she created, after knowing that her ditzy former assistant was the one behind them, even after the humiliation she had suffered under Andy’s hand, gave the brunette faith that Alexandra was more than just an interesting enigma, a puzzle to be solved.

                Speaking of the Devil— Andy chuckled at the thought— Miranda finally made her appearance in the showroom, followed by a strangely subdued Nigel Kipling, along with Emily trailing behind, clipboard at the ready. She went directly to her assigned seat, right in the front row; which was prime real estate at such events. An ecstatic Guillermo Santorini was seated next to her, much to the Editor’s apparent chagrin. By the way Guillermo was so happily chattering about, Andy surmised that the news of his imminent unseating had not yet reached his own ears. Perhaps Elias-Clarke would pity him enough to wait until Milan Fashion Week was over to give him the news. The brunette could not even bring herself to pity the man; his rumoured replacement, Bianca D’Avalos, would rejuvenate _Runway Italia_ in a way that would hopefully bring it back from the pit it had reached during Guillermo’s fumbling leadership.

                Andy was about to stop her surveillance of the crowds when another familiar face walked in, making her teeth clench together painfully. Jacqueline Follet entered the room, her stance and posture indicating her attempt to look commanding and important. She looked like she was trying to own the room as she made her presence known; an endeavour that was doomed to fail from the start. The brunette scoffed at the woman’s pathetic attempt; it was painfully clear whose domineering presence the was trying to emulate, and that particular person had just pursed her lips and scrunched her nose as if she smelled something decidedly foul. Andy could not help but chuckle; she could only agree with Miranda’s disgusted expression.

                _‘No one can do what I do.’_

                The words resonated within Andy, and with a grin, she thought to herself that she agreed wholeheartedly.

                It was a wonder how Jacqueline Follet had managed to claw her way back onto the Editor’s chair of _Runway France_ after the embarrassing fiasco that was James Holt International. Andy gave her credit for that at least. How she managed to remain there once she was back was less of a mystery: _Runway France’s_ sales had been skyrocketing over the past couple of years, despite Jacqueline’s generally uninspired and mundane ideas. At first Andy could not understand how the magazine managed to sell so well, especially within such a supposedly fashion-savvy demographic such as the French. The puzzle was instantly solved once she took a look at _Runway France’s_ Editorial Staff.

                None other than Christian Thompson had been in charge of revamping the magazine’s feature articles. And as much as Andy disliked the man, she had to give him a nod for sensing gaps in the market at the very least. Leaning heavily in movie and popular book reviews, along with a ridiculous increase in gossip columns and celebrity covers and interviews, _Runway France_ had definitely struck gold with the prepubescent demographic. Who could resist photoshoots with their favourite actresses, insight into their lives, and dibs onto exclusive material from whatever movie or book series was currently seizing the moment? _Runway France_ had been turned into a tabloid. Andy grimaced; what a horrible fate for such a remarkable, world-class magazine.

                Luckily, the cocky blond writer was nowhere to be seen. Andy saw the moment when Miranda and Jacqueline locked eyes, and could not supress a guffaw at the scene; she did not know who the two women thought they could possibly be fooling with their forced expressions and smiles of acknowledgement. They could not make the exchange seem even remotely cordial; the loathing seeped out of their every pore, rolling off in waves.

                The lights flickered, signalling the start of the showing, and Andy, for the first time ever, took her expected place backstage, prepping the models and overseeing her own show. Before, Claire was the one to do it, ‘representing Alexandra Saxton’, while Andy hung around unobtrusively, with a large camera slung around her neck, discreetly signalling Claire for every last-minute changes as needed. The blonde was obviously glad with the change, but still stuck around to help out.

                “Well look at you, doing your own job for once” she joked between a model and another.

                The only response Andy deigned to give was an exaggerated roll of her eyes and an amused grin.

                The show went off without a hitch, and Andy could not help but smile at all the enchanted faces in the crowd once she came out onto the runway and bowed in thanks. Her eyes sought Miranda’s, and the two shared a knowing look. Andy’s breath hitched when, after the Editor’s customary subtle nod of approval, a real smile graced Miranda’s lips, crinkling the sing around those intense blue eyes in a way that was almost cute. The brunette felt smug, her own smile widening in gratitude. Move over, Tom Ford.

                The first ever Saxton after-party was flooding with people wanting to meet the legendary designer. This part Andy could honestly do without— the constant schmoozing was what she liked the least. Unfortunately, it was a necessary evil to endure, not just because of the Saxton reveal, but because she was now a published designer. She was expected to be hobnobbing, or to be hobnobbed in this case. So she put on her best Alexandra smile and prepared to face the music.

                The most amusing parts of the event were other famous designers, most of them much more established than herself, complimenting her work. Most of them actually seemed genuine, which surprised her to say the least. Vivienne Westwood herself could not stop gabbing about some of her previous collections (apparently she was a true fan of her autumn line from two years before) like a legitimate fan, which in all honesty floored Andy. Valentino shockingly remembered her from her _Runway_ days, and Stella McCartney was all-out fangirling, dressed in Alex Sax from head to toe. They were all rather friendly— with the exception of Donatella Versace, who was clearly still bitter about Alexandra stealing the show back in London. Tough luck, Andy thought.

                “Alexandra, _cara mia! Molto bene!_ Wonderful! _Magnifica! Stupenda!_ Brava, madame, brava!” screeched an overly excited Guillermo, making Andy grimace. It certainly seemed like their previous butting of heads due to her spread on _Runway Italia_ was long forgotten. He was followed by Miranda, Jacqueline and Elizabeth James, the Editor-in-Chief of _Runway Britain._ Andy hissed her greeting though her smile, wishing for an umbrella as Guillermo talked, spewing everywhere.

                “Guillermo, I am so pleased it was of our liking.” She said simply, her voice smooth like velvet. She saw Miranda arch an eyebrow at her tone.

                “To my liking? _Cara mia,_ it was perfection. _Perfezione,_ my dear. Just between us” he winked at Andy and at the other Editors “your spread and this show’s publicity might just save my career” he laughed, as if he had just made the funniest joke.

                Andy and the other women just smiled, and the brunette could tell by their faces that they all knew what she knew. There was no saving Guillermo’s career. Jacqueline was doing the worst job at hiding it, Elizabeth looked just mildly guilty, while Miranda flashed an expertly practiced grin to string him along.

                “It was indeed quite extraordinary” Elizabeth said kindly. “Your collections are always so refreshing.” She added with a genuine smile. Andy immediately decided that she liked the British Editor very much. It would be a pleasure to work with her, no doubt.

                “Yes, you’ve come quite a long way from fetching coffee for our dear Miranda, _non?”_ Jacqueline said, her strident laugh grating on the brunette’s ears. Miranda did not even bristle at the intended jag, instead, she unexpectedly linked arms with Andy at the elbow, laughing airily. The Frenchwoman’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline.

                “No, although she’s quite fetching, Alexandra is much more suited for fashion than fetching coffee.” Miranda said, her voice at its softest.

                The other editors laughed, albeit a bit nervously. No one missed that Miranda had called her Alexandra, but no one was going to mention it, and Andy certainly was not going to correct her. This was Alexandra’s domain, after all. Also, she was a little too busy processing the fact that _Miranda Priestly_ was touching her in public.

                “Speaking of being suited for fashion” Miranda began again, her voice taking that fake contemplative tone “I do think Andrea could maybe make an appearance on _Runway France_ at Paris Fashion Week. What do you think, Jacqueline?” she asked, somehow making the woman’s name sound like a bad word. An expertly pronounced, subtly deadly bad word.

                Jacqueline was obviously caught by surprise, as her eyes widened to the size of saucers, almost obscuring the nauseating green eyeshadow she wore.

                “At _Runway France?_ Miranda, _ma chérie,_ I would be honoured. But I would think you’d try to drag her to New York _tout de suite._ ” She said, not bothering or unable to conceal her shock.

                “Oh, I would, but we all know dear Alexandra does not seem fond of the city that never sleeps. I do know she rather enjoys _La Ville Lumière._ If memory serves me correctly, she’s particularly fond of its fountains.” She added with her fake airy laugh, but real mirth twinkling in her blue eyes.

                It took all the willpower Andy possessed not to whirl her face towards the silver-haired woman in disbelief. Oh, there was no way she was letting that one go. They would talk about it; she didn’t know when or how, but they would.

                “Well, I would love to feature you in _Runway France._ You’d be welcome any time” Jacqueline said to Andy, looking like the cat who got the canary. She then turned to Miranda.

                “But Miranda, dear, I would have liked to have this option a little earlier. Then I would not risk missing a deadline.” She said caustically through her smile. Miranda chuckled.

                “An understandable fear. I can’t imagine what that would feel like” she said, not bothering to hide the jab. “But if _Vogue_ manages to miss a deadline without much consequence, I’m sure you will be just fine, _chérie.”_ She finished in that same soft voice.

                “It would be an honour to be on _Runway France,_ Ms. Follet.” Andy said through her teeth, turning to Jacqueline.

                “Oh, call me Jacqueline, _chérie._ ” The Frenchwoman said in a sickly sweet voice.

                “And let’s not worry about possible missed deadlines, right?” Miranda said, mimicking Jacqueline’s tone in what could only be a mocking duplicate of it. “I’ll loan you Emily, my Junior Editor, until Paris. Do you think you could work with Emily again in this different setting, _Alexandra?”_ she asked, turning to Andy with a raised eyebrow.

                “Yes, Miranda” Andy replied with a laugh.


	23. Chapter 23

 

 

 

                “Emily” the known airy voice carried itself effortlessly. With a promptness that had been drilled into her skull from her time as an assistant, the redhead quickly made her way to where the Editor sat.

                “Yes, Miranda?” she asked by rote.

                The silver-haired woman looked up from her laptop, her eyes intently watching the Brit over the rim of her glasses.

                “You are not returning to New York with us.” She stated matter-of-factly.

                Emily gulped, audibly, her confusion at war with one of the many important rules of the Miranda Priestly Handbook. You _never_ ask Miranda _anything._

                Thankfully, Miranda took pity on her.

                “You will be on loan to _Runway France_ until Paris Fashion Week.” She clarified.

                Emily let out the shaky breath she had been holding. That is, until the implication of what working for _Runway France_ entailed hit her.

                “ _Runway France_?” she dared to ask. “But that means Jacqueline…”

                “Yes, this unfortunately requires you to breathe the same air as Jacqueline Follet much more than any normal human being could find tolerable.” Miranda quipped, absentmindedly but deadly.

                Emily was a little too shocked trying to decide if Miranda Priestly had just made a joke — as cutting and vicious as it was— to pay complete and total attention to what the Editor said next.

                “I want you to oversee the Saxton spread for Paris, and make sure that Jacqueline does not make a complete disaster out of it.” Miranda said, visibly irritated by the very real possibility, if not complete probability of that happening.

                Given her previous shock, it took Emily’s brain a couple of extra seconds to catch up.

                “Saxton spread? Andy’s doing a spread for _Runway France?_ For Jacqueline?!” she blurted before she could stop herself, immediately clapping her hand over her mouth as if she could force the words back in. Miranda, however, seemed entirely unaffected by the redhead’s antics.

                “Yes, Andrea will be featured in a spread for _Runway France’_ s special edition for Paris Fashion Week. I am counting on you to make sure it lives up to Alexandra Saxton’s standard; which means you must keep that fool Jacqueline as far away from it as it is humanly possible” Miranda clarified.

                Emily’s eyes almost bugged out at that piece of information, but she would not let it faze her. At least not more than it already had. Miranda was giving her a job, and she would perform it to the best of her ability.

                “You can count on me, Miranda.” She promised confidently.

                “I know that” Miranda said mildly annoyed, as if it had always been painfully obvious. “Or else I would not had chosen you for such a task.”

                Emily just nodded dumbly, mostly because she was not sure how to respond to such praise coming from her boss. There was no protocol for that, no rule on the Miranda Priestly Handbook that covered that particular situation.

                “Andrea has politely offered for you to stay at her home in London while you plan the spread with her. It is your prerogative to stay or not.” The Editor added when Emily remained silent.

                “Uh, sure, I’ll stay with Andy.” The redhead responded.

                “For as long as you are in London, take the opportunity to get in touch with Elizabeth. She is a good friend to have; she can teach you quite a lot.” Miranda continued cryptically.

                Stay with Andy; check.

                Get to know Elizabeth; check.

                Make sure that that fool Jacqueline Follet did not screw up the Saxton spread; yes, yes, check.

                “Andrea will also be featured on _Runway Britain,_ so if you wish to be of use to her and Elizabeth while you’re there, I would strongly advise it” the silver-haired woman added, looking at Emily intently.

                The only answer that preceded the Editor’s customary “That’s all” of dismissal was an understanding nod from the redhead.

                As Emil left the hotel suite, her mind was running through a million thoughts a minute, and then some. She had thought that the sudden spread for _Runway Italia_ was quite odd, but _Runway France?_ Why on Earth would Miranda be so blasé about Jacqueline—Jacqueline Follet! — having Alexandra Saxton? In a way, she was worse than Anna Wintour. Anna provided a challenge, while Jacqueline led a joke of a sister publication. A joke that unfortunately was selling enough to not warrant Jacqueline’s removal as Editor, even with its drastically lowered standards.

                The notion of Andrea— or Alexandra, whoever her former co-worker fancied herself to be at any given moment— doing this to get back at Miranda; more than she already had, only worked from one angle. True, Andrea was now having Saxton spreads published at _Runway’s_ sister publications, but not _Runway_ good and proper, which in a way could serve to incense Miranda further. But the lack of the aforementioned incensing of the Dragon Lady quickly put that particular theory to bed. On the contrary, Miranda was clearly in on it; especially is she was sending Emily to make sure that the Saxton spread was not ruined by Jacqueline’s uninspired ideas.

                So clearly Miranda had a hand on it. But what could she possibly gain with Alexandra Saxton going to other _Runway_ editions? The redhead stopped with a start. _Runway Italia_ for Milan… _Runway France_ for Paris… They were both special editions, both with Miranda taking care of things from behind the scenes. What was the woman up to?

                Deep in thought, Emily ran into Nigel— literally. It took them both a couple of seconds to recover from the collision, but the Brit smiled.

                “Time to get some new glasses, Nigel, you blind mole.” She said in jest.

                Nigel’s responding smile was considerably subdued considering his ordinarily upbeat nature, but Emily chalked that up to exhaustion and stress due to work; as usual. Fashion Weeks— anywhere, of any kind— tended to be quite tiring for everyone involved.

                “Hello there, Emily. I was just heading down for some coffee— care to join me?” he offered.

                “Coffee sounds absolutely wonderful.” Emily said in return.

                In a matter of only a few minutes, the two co-workers were sitting at a booth at the hotel’s café. Emily took only a scalding hot espresso, black. Nigel, on the other hand, was attempting to manoeuvre his way around the chocolaty concoction he had ordered, which came with everything from whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles to cinnamon and marshmallows. There was even a cookie resting atop the humongous dollop of cream. The redhead scrunched her nose in disgust as Nigel opened several packets of sugar in a row.

                “Honestly, is there even any coffee in there?” she said as Nigel took a blissfully long sip, emerging with his lips coated in whipped cream.

                “I think so. Somewhere in there.” He quipped, wiping his mouth, ignoring the look the redhead gave him.

                “So; what have you been up to?” he asked, taking a bite from his cookie.

                “I just had the weirdest meeting with Miranda” Emily replied, eyeing her espresso pensively.

                “Really?” Nigel choked out, covering it with a cough to clear his throat. “What did she have to say?” He asked with a small grimace.

                “She’s sending me to London” she began, not noticing the small gasp coming from Nigel “And then Paris, to oversee a Saxton spread for _Runway France.”_ Emily clarified with a frown.

                Nigel put a hand to his chest, relieved.

                “Wow, really? Hey, you’ll be working with Six again; how’s that going to be?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

                Emily chuckled with a roll of her eyes.

                “I think it will be much more bearable; her fashion sense is at least tolerable nowadays.” She joked. “I’m actually excited; it’s the first time I’ll be overseeing a shoot of this magnitude. Never mind that I’ll have to deal with Jacqueline, this is a great opportunity!”

                “Miranda trusts you, Em.” Nigel said truthfully.

                “That’s what was so weird about this meeting. She actually _said_ she trusts me. Well, not trust exactly, but that she counted on me to make sure it was up to _Runway,_ or Saxton standard, not Jacqueline’s.”

                Nigel smiled genuinely. Despite everything, he knew Emily had potential. Clearly Miranda thought so too, he thought wryly.

                “Well, you’ll probably do just fine. But why are you going to London, not directly to Paris?” he asked, treading carefully.

                “I’m staying with Andy— like, at her _house,_ to help her plan the spread and all that. That reminds me, Miranda was oddly telling me to get in touch with Elizabeth James at _Runway Britain”_ The redhead added as a second thought.

                “Really? Whatever for?” Nigel asked through the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

                “No clue” Emily shrugged her shoulders. “She told me she was a good friend to have, and to ‘make myself useful’. It was all quite odd.” She said with a frown of confusion.

                “Yeah; well, who knows why Miranda does the things she does” he said, rearranging his collar, eager to change the subject. He really hoped that Miranda would break the news to Emily, sooner rather than later. He would keep his mouth shut for as long as his boss deemed necessary, but that did not mean he would like it. Besides, it was incredibly hard to talk to Emily while she was so blissfully ignorant of the difficult decision Miranda would spring on her.

                “Speaking of that; what is her deal with all these spreads in the other _Runways_?” Emily asked with a pensive look. “I don’t get why Andy’s even OK with being affiliated with _any Runway_ publication, period. Especially after the Wintour Episode.” She with a wiggle of her brows. Nigel snickered.

                “Well, you know they had a couple of meetings, before and after the Wintour Episode.” He pointed out.

                “True” Emily conceded “but it’s not like either of them clued us in on what’s going on. I thought they’d be at each other’s throats after you-know-what, but they seemed… _Civil.”_ She shuddered playfully.

                “Miranda told me a little bit about it” Nigel began “after I nagged her enough, apparently.” Emily laughed.

                “Well, then spill! What’s with all the Saxton spreads?”

                “She’s sweeping Europe with Alexandra Saxton. She has plans to feature her on _Runway”_ he winked wickedly “for New York Fashion Week.”

                Emily almost choked on what was left of her espresso.

                “New York?” she rasped out “But Andy has _never_ been to New York Fashion Week. What makes Miranda think she’ll go, just for _Runway?”_ she asked in disbelief.

                “Apparently they have ‘come to an understanding’” Nigel quoted with his fingers and a toll of his eyes. Emily huffed.

                “And that’s all we’ll ever get out of her, I suppose” she mused with a frown.

                “Maybe you can ask Six while you’re in London with her. There’s a better chance of getting something out of her than from Miranda” Nigel pointed out, finishing off what was left of his cookie.        

                “Eh” Emily shrugged, looking rather sheepish “I don’t know, Nigel. I was the one who gave her name to Miranda” she said, eyeing her empty coffee cup with great interest.

                “That’s nonsense.” Nigel assured her, clapping a hand onto the table “Six knows better than most how Miranda is. She gave you no choice.” He reasoned.

                “That’s not true. Isn’t Miranda all about choices? I could have said no; I just would not have made a difference in the end. She made sure that that particular option was not ideal for her purposes in the first place” she tried, but just earned a humourless laugh from Nigel.

                “So, in short, you had no choice.” He insisted. “Maybe the illusion of choice, huh?”

                “Whatever you say” Emily retorted before she was interrupted by a chime from her phone. With an apologetic glance towards Nigel, she fished it out of her satchel.

                “Oh, it’s Serena” she said, her blue eyes suddenly twinkling as she read the message “She’s talked to the realtor; apparently I’m really going to like this new place she found.” She added with an adoring expression that only graced her features when the Brazilian was involved.

                “Buying a house together?” Nigel asked with an uncomfortable swallow.

                “Maybe” Emily said with a smile. “We’re really just looking around for now. We don’t really want to move again, you know?” she clarified, that dopey smile never wavering for a second.

                “You’ll have to tell her you won’t be coming back with us to New York.” Nigel warned, worried. “How is she going to take it?”

                The redhead just waved him off.

                “She’ll be fine with it” she assured him confidently. “She knows how dedicated I am to my job, and vice-versa.” She explained.

                Nigel tugged at his collar uncomfortably once more. The loving look on the Brit’s eyes was almost painful considering what he knew.

                “Yeah. That’s… That’s good.” He said flatly, unable to find something to add to the conversation.

                “Yes. It’s what made this work. What makes _us_ work. God knows we’re both busy enough as it is.”

                “It’s all about choices” Nigel suddenly murmured, more to himself than to Emily.

                “Excuse me?” she asked, not hearing him very well.

                “It’s all about choices, Emily” he repeated a bit more clearly. “You two work because you’ve made the right ones. If there is ever a time…” he grimaced; there was no possible way to make this subtle. “If there is ever a time when the decision seems too difficult or unclear, just… Just try to follow your heart.” He finished lamely.

                Emily’s brow quirked in confusion.

                “What on Earth are you on about, Nigel?”

                “Nothing” he blurted, motioning for them to get up. “I think the exhaustion is finally catching up no me” her lied.

                Emily, however, looked appeased by his answer.

                “Boy, you can say that again!” she laughed, punching him lightly on the shoulder as they made their way out.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back! I know it's been terribly long since the last update, but real life is a royal pain sometimes. I've just moved all of my earthly belongings across the Atlantic Ocean, so please give me a little leeway here ^.^ Still, I've got a couple of chapters already written out, and hopefully I'll be able to get back into the swing of things fairly quickly. Thank you for your support and understanding!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

 

 

                “What are your ideas for this particular spread?” asked a soft voice over the sounds of drinks being poured over ice.

                “Is that not your job?” asked another voice, airily, as its owner accepted a drink.

                “Well, ordinarily yes. But since you’re sending Emily over to oversee me…” Andrea said, her eyes narrowing into slits.

                “For the last time” Miranda said, her cold tone giving away her impatience. “She’s not going there to oversee _you._ She’ll be there to oversee the fool I am ashamed to call my peer” she finished, as thrilled as she always was when people made her repeat herself.

                “I can handle Jacqueline.” Andrea bristled.

                Miranda rolled her eyes pointedly.

                “Yes, of course you can” she said with a dismissive way of her hand, clearly not meaning it at all. “But you’re the designer. I would like to have a third party.” She lied easily.

                Andrea, however, wasn’t having it.

                “That is bullshit.” She said bluntly, downing her drink in one gulp, enjoying Miranda’s bristling at the expletive. “You’ve got some other reason to send her over with me” she said, quirking a brow in challenge.

                Miranda huffed. It was a wonder the brunette could still read her the way she did, even after eight whole years. She chose not to elaborate further, choosing instead to just glare at the other woman.

                “Fine, be that way.” Andrea said, tiring of the glaring match. Miranda finally relented, softening her icy glare to just a curious gaze as Andrea refilled her glass.

                “Have you got anything in the works for Paris?” she asked.

                Andrea simply shrugged.

                “I was working on some sketches simultaneously with the ones from Milan. I’ve already got most of them started.” She explained.

                “Good, good.” Miranda murmured absentmindedly.

                There were a few moments filled with awkward silence, broken only by Andrea’s light rhythmic tapping on her glass. It really was quite… awkward, Andy mused. Here she was, yet again sitting with Miranda Priestly, a woman with whom she firmly believed she would never interact again. Yet here they were, drinking from her hotel’s minibar, trying to be… Friendly?

                “Do you have any of them with you?” Miranda asked suddenly.

                “Huh? Have what?”

                “The sketches? For Paris?” Miranda repeated, reigning in her irritation.

                “Oh, yes, I have a few of them.” Andy eyed Miranda intently. “Would you like to see them?” she asked.

                Miranda sniffed, feigning disinterest, but the brunette knew better.

                “If you don’t mind.” The silver-haired woman finally said.

                Andy chuckled at Miranda’s antics. The woman had not changed one bit. She slowly extricated herself from the comfy chair she had been occupying and padded her way to a dresser to the side of the room, opening a drawer to revel a small safe.

                Miranda watched the brunette as she moved, studying her every movement. She had always done that, even back when Andrea worked for her. Eight years had certainly changed a lot. Andrea had matured not only in appearance, but also in the way she carried herself. Miranda distinctively remembered how her former assistant was at _Runway,_ teeming with insecurity and more than a little fear. As her tenure at the magazine progressed, Andrea lost much f that fear, and her insecurities took to the background as she learned to move around in stilettos. The Andrea from _Runway_ was also gawky and rather awkward, always shuffling, scuttling and stumbling about. She stammered and tugged at her fingers when nervous, something Miranda found profoundly irritating at the worst of times and mildly endearing at the best. Even then, her Andrea from _Runway_ had a fire behind those mocha-brown eyes.

                The Editor would never admit to the extent of her relief once she realised that that burned brightly in Andrea’s eyes after eight years. Back in that fateful day in Paris, it had been doused by her own coldness, and mere embers had remained. She was glad to see that Andrea had managed to stoke the flames anew.

                This older, more mature Andrea exuded confidence with every move. Never mind the gangly creature the traipsed about carrying shirts and scarfs from Calvin Klein, this woman moved with unprecedented grace. Every move had a purpose, and each and every one served to add to Andrea’s elegance.

                She was still quite young, Miranda mused. Yet she looked, or rather, felt a bit older. Perhaps it was the confident way she carried herself.

                The shuffle f papers broke Miranda from her train of thought. Andrea was back to being perched on her chair, her arm extended toward Miranda as she held onto a folder grasped delicately between her fingers.

                “Here are a few for Paris.” She said softly, eyeing Miranda pensively.

                “Very well.” Miranda said simply as she reached for the offered sketches.

                Andy sat back in her chair as Miranda perused the folder. Truth be told, she was a little bit behind with her collection for Paris Fashion Week. She usually was. Every time in Paris, Andy got extremely anxious. For every event in the city, she made sure to work her absolute hardest. At first, she denied there was any significance to her heightened state of nerves at the City of Light, but Claire eventually made her realise there was something inherently different about Paris.

                Paris was where everything had gone wrong. Paris was still a sore spot— so Andy worked above and beyond in order to find something — absolution, redemption; she did not know exactly what it was that she sought so desperately. But one thing she knew; as did the rest of the fashion world: all of Alexandra’s Saxton’s best collections came from Paris.

                Andy took a moment to look at Miranda, something she was still quite used to doing. Back at _Runway_ , she had been a pro at reading the woman. Every glance, every subtle turn of her head or distinct movement had some meaning attached to it; and Andy knew them all— she could read Miranda Priestly like an open book. Most of the time.

                Claire had been absolutely dumbfounded when Andy correctly predicted that Miranda would seek Alexandra Saxton out personally back at that fist show. Andy had been both surprised and terrified to discover she had not lost her edge.

                Therefore, now that she had another opportunity to watch Miranda Priestly, she did exactly that. The woman was an extremely intriguing subject to study, to say the least, and the brunette found herself completely engrossed on the Editor as the latter turned page after page almost reverently. She could tell by the way that Miranda scanned each page that the silver-haired woman was taking her sweet time, soaking everything in with something akin to delight. Andy would never get tired of watching Miranda’s reactions to her work, be it on a sketchbook or on the runway.

                Andy briefly wondered if Miranda reacted similarly when she received the original sketches for the _Caelestia_ collection. Had her eyes looked this impossibly clear blue as they did now? Had her hands caressed each page in awe of what she was seeing? Had her lips parted slightly in surprise, just as they were in this very moment? Maybe Miranda had been wearing her glasses when she received the package, maybe she had removed them pensively and rubbed them across her bottom lip as she was prone to do when deep in thought.

                Miranda closed the folder with the utmost care, leaving a hand resting atop it almost protectively. Her delighted gaze finally met Andrea’s.

                “Andrea” she whispered, her voice light. “These are exceptional. I have no words.”

                Andy swallowed her smugness at rendering the great Miranda Priestly speechless.

                “Exceptional is a word.” She joked with a goofy grin.

                To her relief, not to mention complete surprise, Miranda chuckled.

                “Yes, it is. It doesn’t seem to do you justice, however.”

                Andy blinked, hard. Miranda Priestly was freely praising her. Her previous smugness gave way to awe.

                “These almost make me rethink my entire scheme.” Miranda commented, a longing expression gracing her features. “I don’t know whether I’ll be able to stand having something so beautiful on _Runway France,_ of all places. I have half a mind to drag you to New York this very second.” She muttered.

                Andrea was fairly sure her jaw would have dropped to the floor if she had not reigned herself in in time.

                “Well, if you would rather not have them published with _Jacqueline…_ ” she nearly spat the woman’s name out “You only need to say it.”

                Miranda eyed her cautiously.

                “No, no, I think I will survive. Though I have to admit that I always thought your Parisian collections to be above and beyond your usual fare.” The Editor said pensively.

                Andy raised an eyebrow in question.

                “Don’t get me wrong” Miranda continued “all of your work is beyond reproach. Paris, however, always seems to have a rather distinct feel to it.”

                “And what ‘feel’ would that be?” Andrea prodded, unsure.

                “That I have yet to ascertain. They all feel different, somehow. They’re more… intimate. There’s a certain raw quality to your collections there that is not as visible in your usual work. Miranda attempted to explain, huffing in annoyance with the inadequacy of her own answer.

                Andy, meanwhile, just gazed at Miranda intently. She had _noticed._ Miranda had noticed there was a difference, and even if she was unable to put it into words at the moment, there was no doubt that the Editor actually felt it.

                “Yes” she finally said. “For whatever reason, Paris always brings out something different in me.” She explained, albeit intentionally vaguely.

                It was Miranda’s turn to raise an eyebrow in question.

                “And why is that?” she asked in a whisper.

                Andy bit the inside of her cheek, pondering her next move. Sure, she and Miranda had briefly discussed the possibility of being “friendly”, but talking about it was one thing. Reality was quite another. She looked once again at the Editor, deciding once and for all to bite the bullet.

                “Paris has always held some special meaning to me” she said deliberately slowly, paying special attention to any and all of Miranda’s reactions. “In a way, it’s where it all ended, where it all started… I’m not quite sure myself.” She confessed, wincing internally as Miranda’s posture became more rigid. She pressed on.

                “So, whatever that meaning, that significance is, it has inevitably pushed me to do my absolute best.” She finally finished in a harried breath.

                Miranda let out a shaky breath of her own.

                “What exactly went wrong in Paris eight years ago?” she whispered.

                Andrea was not exactly sure if the Editor was talking to her or solely to herself.

                “Everything.” She said, making Miranda whirl toward her in surprise. “Nothing.” She added with a shrug of her shoulders. “Looking back it all seems so silly, yet it carries so much weight.”

                “There is something I have always wondered” Miranda said suddenly, her voice cautious. “Was it because of Nigel? Or because of what I said?” she asked, and Andy once again had to prevent her jaw from snapping open against her will. Was Miranda second-guessing herself?

                “Neither. Both. It wasn’t one or the other, it was a multitude of things that piled up.” Andy said, well aware that her explanation was not anywhere near what Miranda was probably looking for.

                “You just disappeared in thin air.” The Editor said, her eyes taking an unusually vibrant shade of blue. “I turned around and you were gone.”

                Andy grimaced

                “I know. I’m sorry.”

                Miranda sent a disbelieving glare her way.

                “You cannot possibly mean that.” She accused the brunette.

                “Not entirely, no” Andrea admitted. Given that Miranda did not seem to have anything to add, she rose from her seat and made her way to the bar. She took her time refilling her glass, savouring it before willing herself to continue.

                “I am not sorry for leaving.” Andy said solemnly. “I am sorry for how I did it. It was childish and completely unprofessional. You deserved better than that.” she finished, taking a large sip from her glass and steeling herself for Miranda’s response.

                To her surprise, Miranda chuckled albeit humourlessly.

                “Did I? Are you certain? The Andrea from eight years ago might disagree.”

                Andrea looked sheepish.

                “You’re right.” She conceded, deliberately ignoring Miranda’s shocked expression. “The Andrea from eight years ago thought you were a major bitch. In fact, I still think that you’re a major bitch, Miranda” she raised a hand to prevent the Editor from interrupting her. “But I’ve also learned that a lot of the time, it pays off to be a bitch.”

                The silver-haired woman had bristled momentarily, but calmed herself almost immediately after Andrea’s explanation.

                “So, you know, I guess we can say it’s all water under the bridge?”

                Miranda’s eyebrow quirked; maybe in question, maybe in amusement, maybe in disbelief; Andrea couldn’t quite tell.

                “Is it really?” she prodded, prompting Andrea to shrug her shoulders once again.

                “As far as I’m concerned. It’s been eight years, and you’ve been proven right. I need to let it go.” She revealed.

                Miranda opened her mouth, no doubt with some caustic retort primed and ready, but seemed to think better of it at the last possible second.

                “Very well. I wish to return to this discussion at a later point in time. For now, I will leave it be.” She said instead.

                Andrea nodded, fully in agreement. There was only so much of this topic that she could stomach without a bigger drink.

                “Meanwhile” Miranda continued “I would like it if you and Emily began exploring the possibilities for your spread on _Runway France._ I have asked her to pay special attention to any requirements you might have.”

                “Good. Do you know which photographer will be the one responsible for the shoot?” Andrea asked with a measure of caution.

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “Not the Italian you are so determined to avoid, but simply one of his countrymen. I suppose that you have heard of Mario Testino? He’ll be the one in charge.”

                Andrea’s eyes bugged out.

                “Testino? I thought he had stopped working with Jacqueline.” She said, amazed.

                “Indeed” Miranda confirmed with an evil gleam in her eyes “but he is doing a personal favour to me.”

                The brunette chuckled and finished her drink.

                “Of course he is.” She said sarcastically, but quickly modified her tone, sending a grateful glance toward the Editor.

                “Thank you” she said truthfully.

                Miranda just huffed in response.

                “I surely don’t know what for. I simply did it to preserve some of the standard that _Runway_ is known for… Even if its French sister publication has fallen quite below it.” She lied.

                Andy suppressed a giggle— Miranda was not fooling her not her, not even for a second. However, she chose to drop it.

                “Nevertheless, thank you. You didn’t have to send Emily; or Testino for that matter. You could have just let Jacqueline run this spread however she wanted to.”

                “Now why would I do that?” Miranda quipped indignantly. “First of all, I would not want Jacqueline to devalue the Saxton brand. Secondly,” she smirked, her eyes twinkling “why would I do that now that we have agreed to be friendly?” she said, emphasizing the last word sarcastically.

                Andrea laughed openly.

                “True, true. Are we succeeding, so far? In being ‘friendly’, I mean?”       

                The Editor tilted her head, sending an amused glance towards her former assistant.

                “We seem to be doing just fine, as we have yet to throttle one another” she snarked, delighting in the peals of laughter Andrea let out freely.

                “I really like this more humorous side of you, Miranda.”

                “Yes, I have no doubt it lends me an illusion of humanity. It’s a great cover.” She quipped with another roll of her blue eyes.

                “You are human. It’s just hidden deep, deep, deep down, but it’s there. I’ve seen it.” Andrea said.

                Miranda turned to the brunette, her disbelief clearly written across her face.

                “Where, pray tell, have you glimpsed my ever-elusive humanity?”

                “Well, I know you said that we would discuss it another time but… Paris.” Andrea clarified, looking anywhere but at Miranda.

                The Editor did not immediately respond, choosing instead to purse her lips for a fleeting moment.

                “You’re right” she finally said; pinning Andrea in place with a look. “I did say we would discuss it at another time.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, once again! I know it has been forever, and I feel like I owe the readers of this story an explanation (I might not, but it doesn't feel quite right). I was pulled into the world of fanfiction because my own world was falling apart. I was clinically depressed, slightly agoraphobic and had been all but put under suicide watch by my University counselor. I don't know what possessed me to start writing fanfics, or to even consider the DWP fandom in the first place. All I know is that suddenly, there was something I liked doing, and there were people that liked the result. For that, I want to thank everyone who has been following this story from the beginning. It may sound stupid even to me at times, but this story is what held me together when I was about to break. But it got to a point where not even this could help me, and I had to stop and heal.
> 
> Now, I'm in a better place. I'm starting University again in the Spring, doing something that I like. I've found someone who is with me during my happy days as well as my not-so-happy days. I've reconnected with a support system that I had left behind. And it didn't feel right to just leave this story just because my life was turning around- I still have every intention to finish it. I apologize for the massive delay; but I needed time. I've had the time, and now, I'm back. So here's a small chapter, to get us all back into the swing of things.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your unending patience and support.
> 
>  
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

 

                Emily’s jaw had practically disconnected from its hinges as she walked into the most luxurious plane interior she had ever set foot in— which was really saying something, considering who she worked for.

                “A jet?! You have a bloody jet?!” she had squawked almost immediately upon entering, before she could stop herself.

                “Temporarily, yes. I don’t own it, I’m just renting it” explained the brunette behind her.

                “You do realise that this flight takes less than two hours, don’t you?” Emily pointed out, prompting her former co-worker to roll her eyes.

                “I’m well aware, Emily. I’m just trying this one out before I get my own.” She supplied helpfully.

                “Buy your own?! Buy your own! Can’t you just fly first class for the rest of your days?” the redhead questioned as she made herself comfortable on one of the plush seats, letting out a contented sigh.

                “On second thought, just buy this one. And send me one of these” she gestured around the seat she occupied “it feels absolutely divine.”

                Andrea simply laughed at the Brit’s antics. She took a seat across from the redhead, setting herself up for the flight.

                “I probably could just fly first class.” She said after a few moments of contemplation. “But there’s the hassle of being recognised, a problem I didn’t really have before. Plus, with a jet I’m on my own schedule, not the airline’s.” she reasoned.

                Emily let out a rather ungraceful snort of laughter.          

                “There are only two people I know in this whole wide world who would refer to flying first class as a hassle, and you’re one of them.” She said through her chuckles.

                “Who’s the second one?” Andy asked, even though she had an inkling.

                “Who do you think?” Emily quipped sarcastically “Miranda bloody Priestly, that’s who.”

                Andrea chose not to comment. Perhaps in the past the idea of buying a jet would have seemed ridiculous to her, but those days were long gone. Now she longed for the privacy it would provide. And it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it. It took her a long time to get it through her own stubbornness, but it was not a crime to live within one’s means.

                “Though I have to admit, not even Miranda has a jet.” Emily added, clearly amused. Andy just chuckled.

                “She doesn’t need one— she has friends who have jets.” She pointed out.

                “True. There are always designers throwing themselves at her feet to get in her good graces.” The redhead turned to Andy with a questioning look. “What about you?”

                “What about me?”

                “Will you lend Miranda your jet?” Emily questioned with exaggerated air-quotes. “So to speak.”

                Andrea huffed, raising an eyebrow.

                “You just want to fly on this one at every opportunity.” She accused playfully.

                “Guilty” Emily muttered, leaning into the seat and closing her eyes happily.

 

 

 

                Once they landed in London, Emily realised the error of her ways. Private jets were absolutely delightful. Everyone should have one. She would have to mention it to Serena; who needed a house when you could have a ‘house’ that _flew?_ It was bloody genius.

                Once again, she was sunk in a plush, comfortable seat, only this one was a Victorian armchair in the guestroom she would be staying in at Andrea’s townhouse. She had received quite a shock once she walked into the beautiful townhome in the familiar neighbourhood; it just didn’t seem like Andrea at all. However, that first impression was quickly remedied as she went deeper into the house, up to the floor where her room was located. She dreaded staying in the abode of Alexandra Saxton, but she thought she could handle being in the home of Andy Sachs.

                “Hello, Emily.”

                The redhead jumped nearly three feet in the air when the disembodied childish voice called to her, greeting her quite abruptly. She finally her eyes on another familiar brunette; though quite a smaller one.

                “Christ. What in the bloo— Oh, hello. You’re Allie, is that right?” She said, recovering with remarkable speed. She had almost forgotten about the little girl, who was quite frankly a miniature carbon copy of her mother.

                “You remembered!” Allie exclaimed with a blinding grin. Her expression turned pensive all of a sudden. “I mean, unless you don’t like nicknames. Do you like nicknames?” she asked, very seriously.

                “Uh, I don’t particularly mind them most of the time.” Emily said truthfully, because really, how else was she supposed to respond to that? It seemed to be the right thing to say in the end, because the girl’s blinding smile returned at once.

                “OK, good. I didn’t know if you would be like Miranda. Miranda doesn’t like nicknames, so I didn’t know if you’d be like Miranda and not like nicknames, but I like nicknames as long as they’re not mean.” She said in once rapid breath.

                The fast-spoken sentence momentarily threw Emily in for a loop, but once she recovered her eyes were as wide as saucers.

                “Miranda?” She squeaked. Surely the child didn’t mean her boss, Miranda Fucking Priestly. “You don’t mean Miranda Priestly, do you?”

                “Of course! She came here to meet with mum, and she played with Minnie, or rather, Minnie played with her, really, I’m not sure if Miranda liked Minnie very much.”

                Emily was lost once again. Who the Hell was Minnie?”

                “And who would Minnie be?” she prompted, legitimately curious.

                “Oh, Minnie’s out cat, though Miranda called her Minerva, just like she called me Alice because Miranda isn’t particularly fond of them or at least that’s what she told me.” The child provided, rather quickly once again.

                The redhead blinked very slowly and forcefully a couple of times, trying to get rid of her confusion. She was quite sure that the girl had just mentioned that her boss, Miranda ‘The Ice Queen’ Priestly had interacted with a cat, which was honestly ludicrous. Miranda despised cats.

                The little girl looked at her expectantly.

                “I always thought ‘Allie’ was short for ‘Allison’” she supplied rather unhelpfully.

                “No! I _just said_ that my name’s Alice!” the little girl said, crossing her arms in an exasperated fashion, quickly making the redhead backtrack.

                “Well, since I’m just going to call you Alice anyway, it doesn’t really make a difference, does it?”

                Allie — or Alice, whatever it was going to be— uncrossed her arms from her chest and eyed Emily pensively, giving the redhead’s point serious consideration.

                “I guess that’s true” she finally conceded. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. Children were never really her forte.

                “What are you doing here, Emily? Have you come for a visit?” Allie said, her change of subject blindsiding the sitting Brit.

                Emily shook her head in amusement at the little girl currently dangling from the arm of her chair by her elbows.

                “Not really. I’m here to help your mother out on a few things.” She said truthfully, uncertain of how much she should— or even could— divulge to a child.

                “You work for Miranda, right?” she pressed on.

                Emily nodded in confirmation.

                “Are you going to put my mum’s stuff on Miranda’s magazine?” the child continued.

                “I don’t put anything on _Runway._ Miranda is the Editor-in-Chief, so she is the one who decides what will be in it.” Emily said almost automatically.

                Allie furrowed her brows, but the action seemed to be borne more out of frustration rather than confusion.

                “But is Miranda going to put mum’s stuff on it? Is that hat you’re here to help with?” she demanded.

                “No” Emily admitted. “I’m here to help your mother with a spread for _Runway France.”_ She explained.

                Allie let out a surprised squeak and threw her little hands into the air, her frustration palpable.

                “ _Runway France?_ But that’s like the worst _Runway_! That lady’s hair looks like a skunk on her head!” she squealed indignantly, crossing her lanky arms across her chest once she was done.

                Emily tried to resist the overwhelming urge to laugh, with limited success— an ungraceful snort was able to escape. The child did have a solid point about Jacqueline’s hairdo; it did resemble a skunk at times. Her slip drew a giggle from Allie, who seemed to recover far more quickly than the redhead.

                “So, is my mum ever gonna be on the real _Runway?_ ” she asked in a defiant tone that totally took Emily by surprise.

                “Well, I’m not really the right person to ask” she dodged. “Why don’t you ask your mother?”

                An annoyed huff was her only response before a knock on the door startled them. Alice’s eyes widened considerably.

                “It’s mum! Hide me, Emily!”

                Before the Brit could even blink, a mass of brown hair hurled itself behind her armchair with a giggle. The action was almost immediately followed by Andrea entering the room politely, with a playful look on her face.

                “Hello there, Em. You wouldn’t have happened to see a Munchkin stomping around these parts, would you?” she asked with a knowing smile.

                “I do believe one has sprouted behind my chair.” Emily said, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

                “Emily! You weren’t supposed to give me away!” an indignant voice called from its hideaway.

                The two women laughed, and Andy peeked over the back of the armchair, shooting her spawn a jokingly stern look.

                “Stop bothering Auntie Em, Munchkin. Go wash up, dinner’s in two minutes.”

                A grumbling Alice did as her mother asked, but not before she shot Emily the dirtiest look a six-year-old could manage.

                “Auntie Em?” the redhead squeaked.

                “Munchkin, Auntie Em… I’m sticking with the theme.”

                “Right.” The Brit responded with more than just a hint of sarcasm.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

                “Eliza, call Serena into my office— immediately”

                As her assistant scrambled to dial the Head of the Beauty Department, Miranda shot a scathing look in the direction of her current Art Director, whose face had a rather odd green tinge. Beads of sweat forming at his forehead and temples completed the pathetic picture presently sitting on one of the chairs across her sleek desk. She rolled her eyes.

                “Honestly, Nigel, grow a pair.” She scolded. The sweat stains beginning to show at his collar clashed horribly with his tie.

                Nigel opened his mouth to speak, no doubt with a sarcastic retort at the ready, but his attempt was thwarted by the disembodied voice of Eliza informing them that Serena was on her way. He swallowed nervously before trying again.

                “I can’t do this, Miranda. This will tear them apart.” He whispered, almost supplicating.

                “Don’t be daft. What would such a professional opportunity have to do with their personal matters?" she stated, entirely unfazed.

                Nigel just stared at his mercurial boss incredulously. He was aware that Miranda was by no means an idiot; this was just her very particular way of saying that she really didn’t give a damn.

                “You’re sending Emily across the ocean! This is not a move to the next town over, you’re sending her to another continent! It’s not like she’ll be able to visit frequently!” he hissed in one breath, gripping the arms of the chair he occupied in quiet fury.

                “Not. A. Word.” Miranda murmured, effectively silencing him with a particularly glacial glare just as Serena politely made her way in.

                “You called for me, Miranda?” she asked almost timidly in her heavily accented timbre, eyeing Nigel curiously once she noticed the Art Director in the room.

                “Of course I did. Would you be standing here otherwise? I think not. Have a seat.” Miranda said with her usual iciness.

                The Brazilian did as she was asked, doing her best to ignore the Art Director seated by her side, profusely sweating.

                “Serena” Miranda started unceremoniously “You have been in the Beauty Department since the very beginning of your tenure with us. You have done exceptionally well.”

                “Thank you” Serena responded gratefully. It was not always that the Ice Queen commended someone for their work.

                “However, even now as a Head of Department, a position you have held for the past three years, it is not enough for you. You want more.”

                “Actually, I…” Serena tried before Miranda’s gaze sharpened.

                “No, no” the silver haired Editor cut her off, wagging an impatient finger. “That wasn’t a question. I believe that your talents has been largely underutilised in your current position. I’m aware that you have a great eye for colour, light and composition, a talent that has not been properly explored in the Beauty Department. I would like to offer you the opportunity to hone these abilities in a more appropriate setting. Like our Art Department.

                Serena’s eyes widened, and she smiled. The bespectacled man next to her saw through her misunderstanding at once. The poor fool thought she’d eventually be working with Emily. His grip on the arm of his chair tightened.

                “Therefore” Miranda continued “it has been decided that you will begin our training under Nigel, effective immediately.”

                The Brazilian’s features mirrored her confusion.

                “Training under Nigel?” she asked.

                “Yes” the Editor continued, sounding remarkably bored “you must be ready by Autumn, so you are ready and able to take over the reins of the Department once Nigel moves on after Paris Fashion Week.”

                All the colour drained from the other woman’s face as understanding dawned. Her eyes mirrored her complete and utter shock, and she quickly turned to Nigel seeking an explanation, but he was of no help.

                “Me? Miranda, there’s been a mis-”

                “This is no mistake. I know you are more than capable of keeping up your high standards in a more challenging post such as Art Director.”

                “Yes, Miranda, thank you very much, but you see, I…”

                “I do hope you realise” Miranda continued, her voice dropping suddenly to a lower, more menacing register “that this is not an offer I make lightly. An opportunity such as this one only comes once in a lifetime.”

                Serena blinked in confusion, her mouth opening to respond, but the Editor continued.

                “When I offer such a promotion, I expect you to know full well why I do so. If you don’t think you are up to it, all you have to do is tell me that your work would not meet our standards.”

                Serena at once understood the message. Take it or leave it, but by choosing the latter, she would effectively be leaving _Runway,_ not just declining a promotion.

                “Yes, Miranda. Thank you. I won’t let you down” she rasped out. The Editor leaned back on her chair and waved a hand, dismissing her employees.

                “Good. That’s all.”

                Nigel was the first one to stand, jumping out of his seat as if something had bitten him in the behind. He gently but hurriedly nudged the tall Brazilian to stand up, as she seemed to have been frozen in place, biting her bottom lip in a clear attempt to hold back a sob.

                Once they finally made it out of the Dragon’s outer office, Nigel turned to the visibly distraught woman.

                “Serena?” he called softly.

                “Oh my god, Nigel. What am I going to do?” she gasped suddenly.

                “You’re going to take over for me after Paris” he said with newfound conviction, while still trying to keep his tone gentle.

                “But this is going to kill Emily! She’s wanted this, she’s wanted your job for years!” the Brazilian choked out indignantly.

                “All I am allowed to tell you” Nigel began softly “is that Emily will get her chance” he reassured her, rubbing her arms in soothing motions.

                “Don’t worry, Emily’s a big girl. She’ll understand.” He continued, injecting some false confidence in his voice.

 

 

                Emily Charlton was prone to headaches. That was simply a fact of her life— an unpleasant, but not entirely unbearable one. As a child, she would get headaches when she got in trouble, be it for sneaking in a cookie before dinner or for blaming the cat on a mess she had made. In school, looming exams caused them with an exasperated consistency. In university, the culprit was her imminent dissertation. At _Runway,_ her biggest, most enduring headache was one Miranda Priestly, and subsequently on ditzy second assistant the latter had hired on a whim, one Andrea Sachs.

                Over the years, Emily had learned to live with and deal with the Priestly headache. What she had never expected, however, was for that ditzy second assistant to reappear years down the line, manifesting itself as a monstrous migraine.

                Massaging her temples in vain to prepare herself for the inevitable, Emily looked over yet another spread suggestion for _Runway France_ that Andrea had unceremoniously tossed to the floor with disinterest. They had been at it for hours on end, and nothing seemed right to the brunette.

                For the sake of fairness, Emily mused, it wasn’t entirely Andrea’s fault. Jacqueline Follet would bark out ridiculously subpar suggestions on one end, while the brunette would merely scoff at them in disgust and toss them to the floor with a whispered “No.” Small wonder, then, that the Brit had a headache. The big difference was that the French Editor-in-Chief never induced headaches.

                She just induced bouts of nausea.

                “No.”

                “Not a chance.”

                “No.”

                At this point Andrea was barely looking at the prints, which was really what was driving Emily off her rocker at the moment. If the woman would at least look at the bloody things…

                “Andrea…” she began through gritted teeth. “Just make up your mind. It’s not like _Runway France_ is up to the same standard as _Runway_ in any case, so really just pick one.”

                Almost immediately the redhead realised that had been the wrong thing to say. Andrea’s eyes turned to glass and her jaw tensed. The brunette’s lips quirked in a frighteningly predatory smirk that eerily reminded Emily of her Devil of a boss. She tried her hardest not to gulp audibly. Andrea calmly deposited the 8x10s she had been reviewing on the table, her gaze never wavering.

                “ _Runway France’s_ standards should be the least of your problems, Emily.” She said in a deceptively soft voice the redhead knew only too well. “The reason you’re here is to ensure that that fool Jacqueline respects _my_ standards, is that absolutely clear? _My_ opinion is the one that counts— not hers.”

                Emily fiddled with her necklace for a moment, unsure of what to do. The Alexandra side of Andrea always threw her for a loop, not to mention how frightened it made her— it was simply too much like a certain Dragon Lady to handle.

                “On the other hand…” Andrea continued, her voice losing its previous petrifying quality. “We have been at this for hours. A break wouldn’t hurt.”

                “Thanks be to bloody god” Emily let out. Thankfully, the flash of Alexandra Saxton that had burned with such intensity in Andrea’s eyes seemed to have vanished. The brunette smiled freely at the Brit’s general direction and rolled her shoulders, clearly demonstrating she was a lot more tired than she she had been giving away.

                “Sorry, Em. I just get really task-oriented” she said as she cracked her neck with gusto.

                “I noticed” Emily retorted playfully. “Thank God we can take a break, my head would burst otherwise”

                “Still with the headaches, huh?” Andrea asked as she put some of the rejected prints away. Emily whirled to face her.

                “How in the bloody Hell do you remember my headaches?” she squeaked in surprise.

                “How could I not?” Andrea laughed “They were legendary. And if memory serves me right, I think I caused most of them in my time at _Runway,_ did I not?” she added with a knowing smirk.

                “Well” the Brit said sheepishly “you were quite exasperating back then.”

 

                Their break consisted of eating take-away in one the _Runway Britain_ offices Elizabeth James had loaned them. The British offices were located in London’s Hanover square, right across the offices for Condé-Nast International, which made things interesting. The conference room they used was littered with papers, and a sleek TV hung neatly on the wall— where they’d occasionally see Jacqueline Follet’s caked up features whenever they needed had a video call.

At present, both women ate in companionable silence; Andrea indulged in some steak, while Emily nibbled daintily at a Greek salad.

                “Sorry for being exasperating” Andrea said out of the blue after a few moments.

                “Oh, Andrea, it’s been years. I’m over it” Emily said matter-of-factly.

                “I mean now. I know I make things difficult sometimes, but I have a reason to.” The brunette clarified.

                The Brit seemed to almost choke on her salad at first, but the immediately masked it expertly with a well-timed cough.

                “It’s nothing, really” she said, meaning it. “We both know that it’s that insufferable Jacqueline” she motioned towards the TV on the opposite side of the room “Honest to God, I don’t know what the Board sees in her”

                “Money” Andrea stated simply, earning a reluctant nod from the redhead.

                It was true. Save for _Runway_ — the original— _Runway France_ was the most profitable Elias-Clarke publication. It was their cash-cow in Europe, and it was powered not only by fashion, but by gossip and tabloid material. Jaqueline herself regularly contributed to a sorts of ‘Worst Dressed’ column bashing celebrities’ fashion choices at various important events. That, along with a strong online presence in every type of social media platform, made _Runway France_ prime material for a certain demographic: pre-teens.

                Presently, what was making Emily’s job so damn difficult was the Frenchwoman’s insistence on the placement of unrelated ads and irrelevant columns breaking apart a carefully constructed Saxton spread. Emily had been playing mediator, but Andrea wouldn’t budge and Jacqueline would not see reason.

                “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have one or two ads in the spread…” Emily mused absentmindedly.

                The immediate clatter of cutlery drew her attention to the suddenly angry brunette.

                “Jeez, Andrea, take a joke. I’d never allow it, Miranda would have my neck.” The redhead backtracked.

                Andrea’s features instantly softened as she chuckled along.

                “Forget Miranda. I’d have your head on a platter.”


	27. Chapter 27

                Emily Charlton was tired. Bone tired.

                It wasn’t an unknown condition, sadly, she was all too familiar with having her entire body just begging to topple over so she could get some rest; whether she liked it or not.

                She had presently given into her exhausted body’s demands and laid haphazardly onto an armchair in one of the offices within the massive building that housed _Runway Britain._ Andrea had just excused herself, no less exhausted, to spend time with her daughter— although Emily would bet the brunette would simply go home and nap with the little girl.

                Emily, however, chose to just plop herself onto the nearest soft surface and just close her eyes for a few moments. They had just finished; via video-conferences, to put together an impressive Saxton spread for _Runway France._ It had been quite a feat, and not only because of the ridiculous time constraints: the EIC of _Runway_ ’s sister publication in France just put up hurdle after hurdle, and Andrea had unceremoniously shot them down, and there was Emily, stuck in the middle.

                She wondered with a considerable amount of confusion why in the Bloody Hell Miranda had not sent them both to France. That would certainly have been easier, she thought, than playing video-tag with Jacqueline Follet. Furthermore, the woman didn’t seem to know how to operate a webcam— her nose was always uncomfortably close to the lens.

                But who was she to question Miranda’s whims? If anything, it could be reason the silver-haired woman simply didn’t want to give Jacqueline Follet any sort of advantage by having them on her turf. The redhead had to admit that, in hindsight, it made sense to an extent: the French Editor was so frustrated at times she ended up allowing them some wiggle room.

                Not that much wiggle room, but still.

                Her musings were interrupted by a soft rapping on the office door. Emily sniffed haughtily. If it was that clumsy assistant Elizabeth had left to ‘help’ them again, she would have an aneurysm. The boy, Sam, was pleasant enough, but rivalled the ditziness of one Andrea Sachs, once she had just started at _Runway_ , of course.

                “What now?!” She barked, not in the mood.

                “Terribly sorry, dear, I’ll come back another time.”

                Emily froze once she heard the kind, Britishly accented lilt of Elizabeth James. She whirled on her seat to intercept the woman before she had a chance to leave.

                “Ms. James! I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else!”

                The older woman simply turned around good naturedly, with a chuckle and a sparkle in her green eyes.

                “No doubt Sam. I apologize, he may have done more harm than good from what I hear. But it seems you had a good hand on letting him know.”

                The redhead’s features took the approximate color of her hair.

                “Oh, well, no, I mean… He did help, we were both a little too stressed to have enough patience” she gulped, while Elizabeth’s presence was commanding in its own right, she didn’t have the terrifying aura Miranda (or even Jacqueline, on occasion) evoked. No, instead the Brit had a much warmer and inviting demeanor.

                “Patience or no patience, he should have been able to weather it. I’m afraid I must stop giving him second chances; he is really not cut out for this.”

                Emily’s eyes widened in fear she was getting someone fired.

                “Oh, God, please don’t fire him in our account!” She half-pleaded.

                Elizabeth brushed her off with a laugh.

                “Don’t worry dear. Sam has talent, and I know it. I hope a transfer to Make-Up will be what he needs to flourish.”

                The redhead’s jaw dropped, but the Editor waved off her surprise.

                “Just because some people are not a good fit for some areas, doesn’t mean they won’t do well in others. And don’t think me for a fool, Sam has had extensive experience on that field; the only reason he’s my assistant is because it was the only opening at the time. Now, I’m prepared to see what he can do in his own turf.”

                “Wow. I don’t think I can recall Miranda ever doing such a thing.” Emily slapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words were out. She was clearly too tired to censor herself. Before she could say anything else, however, Elizabeth James _winked_ at her.

                “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”    

The two Brits shared a moment of laughter before recomposing themselves.

                “How may I help you, Ms. James?” Emily asked earnestly.

                “Please call me Elizabeth, dear. Would you mind terribly to go with me to my office and help me out with a few mockups for the next issue?”

                Emily had barely the time to blink before nodding the affirmative.

                “The next issue? Of _Runway Britain_?” the younger Brit asked in a daze, eliciting another laugh from her compatriot.

                “That is the magazine I edit, as far as I can remember. Come along now.”

                Elizabeth gave Emily exactly zero seconds to think before going out the door. The redhead scrambled to follow, finally catching up once the Editor was already in the lift, holding the door open with a smile. As they made their way up, Emily couldn’t help but think of Miranda’s instructions to get in touch with the other Editor.

                That had been remarkably easy; Elizabeth had personally sought Emily out on a variety of occasions, mostly just to know how the talks with Jacqueline Follet were going and if there was anything she could do. Every now and then, she would request updates on the status on the ‘French front’, and the redhead would always oblige. The Editor seemed to have a keen interest on her thought process, and took great delight in listening to the younger woman explain her decisions in detail.

                Emily certainly could not complain; having the attention of an Editor-in-Chief so focused on something she did so well was exhilarating. She had gone to great lengths to explain her thought development and execution. She took particular care to try to explain everything in a more visual-oriented base, even if Elizabeth often asked her about editorial content accompanying the pieces. If she could impress the Editor, maybe she would put in a good word to Miranda, and since Elizabeth was literally the only other _Runway_ Editor Miranda respected, it would mean a lot. Maybe it would even get her an Art Department job.

                They got to the EIC’s office in only a few moments. Emily had been fully expected the space to resemble Miranda’s, clear and open, full of glass, open spaces and marble.

                It couldn’t have been more different.

                For starters, the atmosphere resembled something Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would describe in a Sherlock Holmes book. The room was quite dark, and most of the furniture was made of heavy dark woods in a Victorian style. An inviting leather couch sat to the corner, and the walls were replete with artwork and beautiful oak shelves, which in turn were filled to the brim with books. The desk itself seemed to be a work of art, expertly carved in a similar dark wood.

                While Miranda’s space was open and airy, Elizabeth’s was quite stuffy, but at the same time cozy, especially with the granite fireplace heating the room with its warm orange glow. Elizabeth’s desk was as messy as Miranda’s was organized; papers were strewn everywhere, but Emily could almost recognize a method to the madness. Her desk looked very similar most of the time.

                In no time at all, Elizabeth sat herself with Emily at the couch, the coffee table in front covered with papers, all showing different styles and arrangements for spreads and other content for the next issue of _Runway Britain_.

                “How can I help, Ms. Ja… Ah, ahem, Elizabeth?”

                “Look at these here, and tell me what you think.” The Editor provided simply.

                Emily raised a brow in question.

                “What I think… In regards to what?”

                Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders before replying. “Anything. Everything. What do you think of the spreads? More importantly, what do you think of the body of this mock-up in general, from the content to the font.”

                Emily’s eyes widened.

                “This might take a while.”

                “Oh, silly me. Of course, you must be tired. If you’d rather go rest, go ahead, you can help me tomorrow if you’d prefer.”

                “No-no, I can do it tonight. I want to do it. I was just asking if it would be OK with you.” Emily backtracked, getting a little excited at the prospect.

                “Why certainly. I don’t go home until much later than this.” Elizabeth said kindly.

                Emily smiled and got to work, but before she could really get into it, she turned to the Editor once again.

                “Why are you asking for my help? Don’t you have other staff on hand?”

                Elizabeth smiled brightly at the question.

                “Of course I do. But sometimes, it pays to have fresh eyes look at something. I look at so much every single day, Emily. A new perspective sometimes brings up things even I wouldn’t notice.”

                The Editor turned on the couch, so as she could face the redhead head on.

                “As for why you” she said “You’re the freshest set of eyes around. Plus, Miranda has had great things to say about you, as hard as that may be for you to believe”.

                Emily’s jaw dropped in complete astonishment. While she knew Miranda appreciated her work, to know she had put in a good word with another Editor in Chief— she thought she would cry with joy.

                Elizabeth seemed to understand the redhead’s current inability to form a coherent sentence. She simply chuckled and rose.

                “Why don’t you get to work while I make us some tea?”

                Emily nodded frantically and dove into her next task, trying not to dwell on the fact that an Editor in Chief for _Runway Magazine_ was making her tea.

                “Bloody Hell” she muttered before concentrating completely.

 

 

 

                “Miranda, thank you for taking my call.”

                “Think nothing of it, Elizabeth. Always glad to make the time. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

                “I’m calling to talk about Emily Charlton. Damn it, Miranda!”

                The silver-haired woman immediately shot up in her chair at the uncharacteristic expletive from the mild-mannered Elizabeth. Dear God, what had Emily done?

                “Elizabeth, I trust everything is alright?” she asked, her tone cool and seemingly disinterested.

                “I spent most of the night last night with her, watching her work on some mock-ups.” The Brit continued.

                “…yes? Do continue.”

                “How could you ever keep the poor young woman as a Junior Editor for all this time, I’ll never know. That is positively criminal.”

                Miranda allowed herself a rare chuckle of relief. She trusted Elizabeth enough for it.

                “Goodness, woman, you sounded furious. I was already debating whether I could fire her.”

                “Don’t you dare do such a thing.” Elizabeth huffed.

                The corners of Miranda’s mouth creased slightly in a discreet smile. It was good when things went according to plan.

                “So I trust she’ll do?”

                The British Editor laughed happily.

                “Oh, yes, she will. I’m surprised you’re not keeping her around to replace you. The girl has incredible talent. She’ll go far, I can tell.”

                “And she’ll take _Runway Britain_ just as far, I presume.”

                “Oh, I think not. She’s destined for bigger things. Miranda, I would not be surprised if this girl went on to build her own publication from the ground up and left us all in the dust in her wake.”

                “Let’s not get too much ahead of ourselves. Exaggeration never became you, darling. She has talent, sure, she just has a problem tapping into it.” Miranda pointed out in caution.

                “Yes, yes, yes. But I believe she’ll thrive at the helm of _Runway Britain._ ”

                Miranda was smiling fully now— there was no one else in the office— happy with the development of her plans. She had had no doubts that Emily would meet Elizabeth’s expectations.

                “I am glad to hear it.”

                “When will you tell her?”

                “Soon. Hold onto your seat a bit longer, it won’t be long now.”

                “Goodness, this is really happening. Meanwhile, look for her name as a Contributing Editor in the next issue of _Runway Britain._ ” Elizabeth added happily.

                “Oh, trust me, I will.”

                Miranda ended the call and spun her chair to face the chaotic movement of New York City. She laced her fingers together, smiling behind them.

                There was nothing like the feel of plotting done right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the erratic updating. Unfortunately, I can't guarantee regular updates. They will happen, just not on a schedule as before. Apologies. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis


	28. Chapter 28

                La Ville Lumière was more than a little blinding when Alexandra Saxton stepped out the Charles de Gaulle airport and into rumbling Mercedes idling by the curb. The camera flashes went absolutely berserk, exploding in a barrage of shutter clicks that were almost as deafening as the shouted questions from the horde of reporters.

                “Alexandra! What are your plans for your Paris show?”

                “Alexandra! What can we expect from you this Fashion Week?”

                “Alexandra! Does Paris hold any special meaning to you, since you got your start here?”

                “Alexandra! Did you bring your daughter with you in this trip?”

                “Alexandra! Where is your assistant? Was she fired?”

                “Alexandra! Did you—”

                Alexandra, is it true—”

                “Alexand—”

                “Alex…”

               

                They faded immediately after the car’s heavy door closed behind the immaculate brunette as she made herself comfortable in the leather backseat. The security detail posted outside did their best to keep the reporters from completely taking over the black car. Still, muted thumps against the body of the vehicle could be heard as the crowd of paparazzi tried in vain to snap another picture of the designer from behind tinted windows. Luckily, none of the reporters seemed to have a death wish, and they scattered like roaches at the first sign of the vehicle pulling into traffic.

                Andrea Sachs blew a rogue strand of hair from her face in exasperation. She would never not be bothered by reporters. She took off her round Ray-Bans and exhaled in apparent relief, turning to the other occupant of the vehicle in the backseat, who had remained silent.

                “Good evening Miranda. What a warm welcome.” She said humorously. In fact, Miranda Priestly coming to pick her up at the airport had been completely unplanned on her part; she had been diverted by an old friend picking her up in place of her usual driver.

                “Good evening, Andrea. I trust you were happy to see Roy again.” Miranda smirked.

                “Sure was. Thanks for sending him, he’s a great guy.” Andrea added truthfully. She had been pleasantly surprised to see Roy and his crinkled eyes, soft smile and grey whiskers, as kind as ever, waiting for her at the terminal.

                “He can’t hear you, you know” Miranda said, motioning towards the partition that had been pulled up before the brunette had even entered the vehicle.

                “I know. I still mean it.” Andrea retorted playfully.

                Miranda took off her own sunglasses— Prada— and turned to look intently at the younger woman, still breathing somewhat heavily due to her brisk walk away from the reporters. Her cheeks were tinted a healthy shade of pink, her long lashes fluttered and her red lips were slightly parted. She wore a simple but contemporary ensemble that was a mix of Donna Karan and her own brand, no doubt specifically constructed to be comfortable yet fashionable. Miranda subconsciously nodded her approval.

                “Well, I thought it would be good to come pick you up, since I have learned you are also staying at the Peninsula. What a coincidence.” She said with a knowing look.

                Andrea immediately raised her hands in protest.

                “Hey, don’t look at me. I’ve been staying there for the past four years. It’s not my fault Elias-Clarke decided to switch it up from the Four Seasons this year.”

                “Hm. Imagine my surprise when the Historic Suite had already been booked. I was so looking forward to enjoying it.” Miranda said in mock-sadness.

                Andrea laughed.

                “Oh, I’m sure you found something else that is suitable. It’s an amazing hotel.” She pointed out.

                Miranda huffed.

                “Well, Stanley has got the next one down. And he simply would not allow the funds to the Peninsula Suite. He deemed it excessive.”

                Andrea laughed freely at Miranda’s sour tone.

                “Oh, Miranda, come on. Of course it’s excessive! It’s their best suite!”

                The silver haired Editor sent a scathing look the brunette’s way.

                “That’s rich, coming from the one who snagged their second best.” She accused.

                The younger woman simply rolled her eyes.

                “Knock it off, Miranda. I’m staying in Paris longer than you are; and I’ll have company.”

                Miranda’s eyebrows twitched slightly upward.

                “What kind of company? Your guard-dog Claire, I presume?”

                Andrea gave Miranda a look.

                “Yes and no. Claire’s coming tomorrow with Allie; I want to spend some time with her here.”

                Miranda was visibly surprised.

                “You’re bringing your daughter along for Fashion Week? Don’t you think it’ll be too much exposure?” she asked.

                Andrea’s shoulders slumped a little in defeat.

                “Yeah. She’ll stay mostly at the hotel with her nanny during Fashion Week. After the furore dies down, I wanted to take her exploring a little.”

                She turned to look at her old boss and gave her a sad smile.

                “At least money can buy a good amount of privacy.” She admitted.

                Miranda at once understood. Hadn’t she gone through the exact same thing with her darling girls? She remembered the first time she took them to Paris. She had worked non-stop, and they had stayed at the hotel with their nanny as well. By the end, however, she took three days off and moved heaven and earth to spend some private time with them; whatever the cost. They ended up having private visits to the Louvre and the Musée D’Orsay after hours. It was a fond memory; the girls had appreciated the effort their mother had put into all of it.  

                “I know the feeling well” she sighed, then sent a playful look the brunette’s way. “If you’re interested in private visits to the museums, I know exactly who you should talk to” she winked.

                If Andrea was surprised by the Editor’s playful antics, she didn’t let on. Inwardly, however, she knew she would never get used to seeing Miranda Priestly wink, or crack a joke, or send a wry smile her way. It was miles away from the cold yet mercurial woman who used to verbally eviscerate her for cold coffee.

                The two women rode in companionable silence until they reached the Peninsula Hotel, in the heart of Paris. Unsurprisingly, there was a horde of reporters in wait, their cameras already flashing away madly before they even got out of the car.

                “Now how crazy would they go if we left this car together?” Andrea said with a chuckle.

                “Ah, I can see the headlines already. ‘Alex Sax in Cahoots With the Devil’; ‘Evil Queen Enraptures Fashion’s Sweetheart’.” Miranda retorted, amused.

                “’Fashion’s Sweetheart’? Come on, who the hell calls me that?”

                Miranda shrugged her shoulders playfully.

                “If they don’t, they should. You’re everybody’s favourite. And I believe you would be considered a sweetheart to most people, at least according to the standard.”

                Andrea paused to look at the silver-haired woman beside her in astonishment. Did Miranda Priestly just call her a sweetheart?

                “Come off it, Miranda. After what I did to come out as Alex Sax, what I did to _you,_ would you really call me a sweetheart?” She challenged.

                “Hm, when you put it that way. But no, knowing what I know of Andrea Sachs, both past and present, I would still say she is a sweetheart.” Miranda said with a raised eyebrow. She seemed to take a moment longer to ponder something further.

                “Alexandra Saxton, on the other hand, is a fiery one.” She added with a smirk, before stepping out of the vehicle and into the storm of camera flashes, leaving an open-mouthed Alexandra to hastily put on her sunglasses and follow.

 

               

 

                Paris Fashion week proceeded as lavish as ever, with the city packed to the brim with fashion figureheads from the highest and lowest echelons of the industry alike scrambling to make everything perfect. The Alexandra Saxton show was no different— models and photographers scurried behind the scenes, moments before the show was to start. Assistants and make-up artists worked in a caffeine induced high, checking that every last minute detail was up to standard— _Saxton_ standard.

                In the middle of it all, for once, Alexandra Saxton was not in the same hurry as everybody else; though she kept a watchful eye over every development. Her attention, however, was mostly focused at the little girl by her side.

                “Allie, don’t wander off, please. Stay with me until the show is over, then you can go with Mary while I have to meet everyone else.” She said gently, but firmly, trying to make sure her daughter actually heard it all; the little girl was fascinated with the hubbub and seemed a little too enthralled to actually listen.

                After finally getting a nod of confirmation and a mumbled affirmative response, Andrea could rest a little easier. She really needn’t worry; the girl’s nanny was watching them like a hawk, and so was Claire, though that didn’t exactly fit her job description. Still, Andrea would only be entirely calm again when she was back at the hotel with her daughter.

                It wasn’t exactly planned, to have Allie with her during the show. The little girl had insisted, and, funnily enough, so had Claire. It wasn’t like they would parade her in front of reporters. The only photographers allowed backstage were the ones Andrea had hired for her own collection. No one came through without Andrea’s express permission; a dictum that was enforced by two sets of bodyguards at the two entrances. Claire had said it was excessive, but they had stopped four paparazzi already, so she had accepted defeat.

                “Mum, are you gonna walk out there in the end?” Allie asked, pointing at the curtains separating them from the runway.

                “Yeah. The models are going to walk out there one by one; they change as they go right over there” she pointed to the mirrored area where a handful of models prepared for the first run, a flurry of assistants hovering among them. “Then once they are all done, I walk out and wave at everyone.”

                “Can I walk with you?” the little girl asked expectantly.

                Andrea winced internally.

                “Not today, sweetie. This is all very new still, so people go a little too crazy. Maybe when it’s settled down a bit?”

                The brunette fully expected a tantrum, or at least some incessant pleading from her daughter. To her surprise, however, the little one simply nodded, not looking to happy, but understanding.

                “OK. When it’s settled down then.”

                “Wait, really?” Andrea asked before she could stop herself.

                Allie looked up at her mother and smiled.

                “Yeah. I really want to go, but Claire said it’s hard for you to juggle all the paps and everyone wanting a piece of you. So I should be good.” She squinted at her mother. “Am I being good?”

                Andrea bent down and hugged her daughter earnestly.

                “Very good. Maybe you’ve even earned some ice-cream.”

                “Ice-cream? Oh, yay!”

 

                Before long, Allie was handed off to Mary so Andrea could step into the skin of Alexandra and get down to business. She made last minute checks on the outfits the models wore, and once the music started, barked out instructions and snapped her fingers to call them to attention as they walked out and back. The entire operation worked flawlessly, with an almost mechanical precision as models filtered out and back in, in a hurry to get into the next outfit.

                Faint clapping could be heard through the curtains and the music, but the immediate reaction was not important at the moment; Alexandra would get the actual praise as she stepped out.

                When it did happen, it was as expected: standing ovations echoed through the artistic space as the tall brunette confidently made her way through the runway the models had previously occupied. Every patron stood in their applause, continuing it until way after Alexandra Saxton was already behind the curtains once more.

 

 

                “Miranda, Miranda, did you see the dress mum made?”

                “Why, dear, there were quite a few dresses in the collection. You’ll have to be a little bit more specific.”

                “The one with the ruffly things.”

                “The one with the ruffly things, you say? I do believe that was one of my favourites.”

               

                Andrea tried to supress her grin at the exchange she heard between her former boss and her daughter. Who knew Miranda was this patient with kids?

                As her very arrival in the city, this outing had not been planned. After the Saxton after-party, already ensconced in her lavish suite at the Peninsula, Andrea received a phone call.

               

                “Come to the back lobby. Bring Alice.”

                Andrea had stared at the receiver for a good minute, in comical reminiscence of her initial days at _Runway,_ as she gaped at her mobile after some impossible demand. Miranda had given no explanation, as she was prone to do. Andrea kind of wanted to call back and say that it was way, _way_ past Allie’s bedtime — despite the fact that her little gremlin had ingested copious amounts of sugar, and was currently jumping from couch to couch in the apartment’s previously pristine living room in a heated game of “The Floor is Lava.”

                Before she could contemplate it any further, the phone rang again, she picked up on instinct.

                “If would be so kind.” The soft voice said almost sheepishly from the other end before hanging up once again.

                Andy grinned from ear to ear before summoning her restless spawn.

 

                Presently, her little monster was sitting between herself and Miranda Priestly, in the back of Miranda’s Mercedes. The sugar was evidently still a long way from wearing off. Andrea simply sat back and watched the streets they passed as Allie chattered away, not exactly with, but at Miranda. The silver haired woman was taking it all remarkably well, though Andrea supposed she had brought it upon herself.

                Allie finally stopped talking once she recognized the iconic glass pyramids, illuminated brightly in the dark.

                “The Louvre! Look, mum! It’s the Louvre!”

                Andrea sent Miranda a puzzled look, but received nothing in response. The streets were deserted; there was not a soul in sight. The Editor opened her door and beckoned the two brunettes beside her to follow. Andrea quickly made her way out, grasping her daughter’s hand tightly as they went after Miranda.

                Before they could fully stop at a side entrance, the door opened by itself, just like in a horror film. Andrea was about to exclaim something, but it died in her throat when a friendly looking security guard greeted them. His wrinkled eyes twinkled brightly as he saw Miranda and subsequently invited them in.

                _“Bonne nuit, Madame Priestly.”_ He said in a raspy voice, closing the door behind them.

                _“Gérard, mon ami._ _Comment-allez vous?”_ Miranda responded in kind, in impeccable French.

                _“J’vais bien, merci. Allez.”_

                The three followed the friendly security guard for quite a few minutes in the darkened halls of the museum. Andrea noticed her spawn was suspiciously quiet; taking in all the incredible works of art with great interest and a hint of wonder.

                Gérard finally left them at a large room, bidding ‘adieu’ to Miranda with an exaggerated yet sincere bow. The prominent display was a wall with glass over a small portrait.

                Miranda let Andrea and Allie stare at it for a few moments without saying anything. Andrea had seen it in person once; but generally she avoided crowded museums like the plague, and there was nothing that brought more crowds in a museum than the Mona Lisa.

                “Allie, dear, do you know who that is?” Miranda asked the little brunette.

                “The Mona Lisa?” Allie answered without missing a beat.

                “That’s right.” The Editor beamed, as if Cassidy or Caroline had said it.

                Allie took a few more moments to carefully analyse the famous painting. She leaned a bit closer, squinted, and finally huffed.

                “It’s so tiny!”

                The child’s exclamation drew peals of laughter from the two adults, which bounced off the walls of the empty museum in a cacophonous echo.

                “Yes, it is quite small” Miranda conceded. “What do you think of it, size aside?”

                The little girl turned her head from side to side, like a confused puppy, before finally proclaiming:

                “Eh. It’s not bad, I suppose.”

                The three indulged in a quiet walk within the dark corridors, Allie taking the lead, but not too far ahead. Occasionally, a security guard would walk past without acknowledging them besides a polite tip of his hat.

                “Thank you for this. It’s one thing to see it like this, quite another when you’re crammed into a crowd with phones and iPads.”

                Miranda smirked.

                “Don’t mention it. You are welcome back anytime; I have arranged it with Gérard.”

                “You really didn’t have to.”

                “No, I didn’t. But I’ve been through the road you’re going. I could give you the one thing you don’t have a lot of.”

                Andrea turned to her former boss, puzzled.

                “And what would that be?”

                Miranda looked ahead of them in the corridor, where Allie was busy looking at a winged statue with no head. She sighed.

                “Time.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance. This was meant to be part of another chapter, but I decided to make it its own.   
> ~Naralanis

                Serena struggled to keep her eyes open. She sat in her small office, buried deep in piles and piles of paper. Photos, sketches, color comparisons, mockups, make-up lists, contouring techniques, even a canine picture book previously used for a particular photoshoot. Her usually pristine, impeccably organized workspace had gradually turned to utter chaos about a week and a half before, when Miranda had given her the news for a promotion. In a fit of rage and sadness, she had thrown papers about, wallowing into the despair of having to take her girlfriend’s dream job.

                She had stayed behind during Paris Fashion Week, for the first time in years. Emily had found it strange, but Serena just told her Miranda had wanted her back at the office, and the redhead raised no question. That was usually the case whenever the silver-haired woman’s whims were the case.

                Serena was supposed to have been preparing for her transition to the Art Department. Before leaving for Paris, Nigel had solemnly given her a stack of heavy folders, containing everything he and Emily had gone through so that she could take his place. Those folders were the only part of her office still in order; they sat untouched beside her computer. It had felt like betrayal when Nigel handed them over.

                Emily had yet to hear of it. Miranda had sworn both Nigel and Serena to secrecy until the _Runway_ team returned from Paris. They would be back any minute today, and Serena still had to find a way to break the news.

                She hadn’t slept. Her beautiful features were marred by deep circles under her eyes, her lips were chapped, and her hair was oily and unwashed, strung in an unintentionally messy bun. Her phone had beeped a while ago; it had been Emily saying the company car had come pick them up after landing. She had not bothered to answer.

                The Brazilian held her head in her hands as she held back a sob. It was a wonder she still had any tears left. She couldn’t let this affect her so much. There was no doubt that Emily would be incredibly distraught; the redhead was infamous for her quick and emotional responses. Miranda had said that Emily would get her chance. Serena didn’t want to hurt her girlfriend, but she didn’t want to disappoint the Editor either. That inner conflict was tearing her apart.

                A sudden knock surprised her out of her desperate musings. To her horror, the redhead she had just been thinking about opened her door with a smile on her face.

                “Hey! You didn’t answer my text…” her smile quickly disappeared as she took the scene before her in “Bloody Hell, what happened here?” Emily said, astonished at the state of Serena’s usually anally impeccable office.

                The Brazilian choked back a sob, her words stuck in her throat, prompting the redhead to immediately frown in worry and speed through the chaos of papers, holding her girlfriend by the arms.

                “Hey, hey. What’s going on? Jesus, Serena, what happened to you? Are you OK?? Please, please answer me.”

                “I had no choice. Miranda told me not… not to tell you…  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

                The redhead was confused as her girlfriend sobbed in her arms, but tried to be supportive. She looked for the tissues usually at the corner of the other woman’s desk, but all she found were papers and more papers.

                “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Emily begged, worried.

                “Nigel, the Art Department… I swear I didn’t want to, Em, I swear I didn’t. You’ve been working with Nigel for so long, it was your job to have, but Miranda…”

                “Woman, you’re not making any sense! Calm down. What about the Art Department?”

                Serena took a long breath, steeling herself. They needed to have this conversation, and it would not be done over tears. She took a moment to compose herself, before looking deep into Emily’s blue eyes.

                “Nigel is heading up a new venture. Miranda’s putting me in his place.” She finally said, her voice wavering.

                Emily froze as she was, her eyes flashing in a mix of confusion and betrayal. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Serena laid a gentle hand on the Brit’s arm.

                “I’m sorry, Em. I tried to tell Miranda, I really did, but-”

                “You?” Emily finally choked back, her face hard as stone. “Why?”

                Serena held onto the Brit, her own tears forgotten.

                “Miranda. She said Nigel would be heading up _Men’s Runway_ after Paris.”

                “But… But you… Nigel was working with me. Did you tell Miranda that??” Emily said, beginning to look frantic.

                “I didn’t get the chance. You know how Miranda is.”

                Emily leaned heavily against the side of the desk, her hands falling to her sides. Her mouth opened and closed, as if she was trying to form words, but was unable to.

                “Em?”

                The redhead didn’t look directly at her girlfriend, and merely shook her head away.

                “You?” she finally said. “Why you?”

                Serena shrugged her shoulders.

                “I don’t-” she began

                “I mean, it’s not like you have any experience. You came from some Brazilian cosmetology school, for Pete’s sake.” Emily began to mumble, seemingly to herself.

                “Excuse me?” Serena retorted. She was aware of her girlfriend’s temper and moods, but she’d rather stop her from saying something she would regret. Emily had a tendency to say first, think later, and it was never good.

                “Oh, save it. So you can do contouring, so what? How does that qualify you for heading the Art Department?”

                The Brazilian took a deep breath. There it was again, Emily’s worst quality; she’d lash out, impulsively, without thinking of her actions and their consequences, or the people involved. She stood up to face the Brit from above.

                “I’d be very careful with what you’re about to say, Emily. You’re upset, I get it. You’re not thinking straight.” She warned, gently but firmly.

                Emily stood as well, facing her girlfriend head on.

                “Oh, I’m thinking straight alright. I’m thinking some glorified make-up artist is taking the job I’ve been working my ass off for, for my entire career.” She spewed, her voice laced with venom in such a way only an irrational Emily was capable of.

                Serena blinked back a few more tears.

                “You don’t mean that.”

                Emily scoffed.

                “What did you do, ask Miranda for the job yourself? Did you just accept it and throw me under the bus?! I’ve spent years preparing for that job. Years!” she screeched.

                “Miranda left me no choice!” the blonde threw back.

                “There is always a choice! Always!” Emily retorted, furious.

                “What would you have me do?!”

                “You could have said no!”

                “And lose my job?! The only job I’ve ever loved?!”

                “Yes!” the redhead snapped, hands closed into fists at her sides.

                Serena stepped back, astonished. Emily fumed, panting heavily after her outburst.

                “I can’t believe this. I trusted you. What, did you go behind my back? Did you beg Miranda for a promotion, did you get on your knees and f-“

                A resounding slap reverberated through the walls of the small office. Serena’s hand stung, and Emily’s pale cheek was already beginning to redden. Tears streamed down the Brazilian’s face, and the redhead seemed to have awoken from a trance, her eyes wide and surprised.

                “How dare… you. How…”

                “Oh my god. Serena, I’m-”

                Emily stopped talking once Serena’s hands came up. The blonde silently picked up her purse and walked to the door, avoiding Emily’s pleading, outstretched hand.

                “Serena, I-”

                “Don’t bother waiting for me at home, _querida._ ” Serena coldly interrupted, slamming the door on her way out.

               

               

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me. They won't be apart for long, I promise.


	30. Chapter 30

                Alexandra Saxton was waved into the _Runway Britain_ offices without so much as a pause to her stride. Even though it was a Sunday, the austere yet fashionable lobby was still somewhat crowded. After all, the world of Fashion never stopped spinning.

                By memory, she made her way to the elevators, the few people who had been waiting let her occupy one by herself. She made no motion, choosing instead to look forward with a blank expression from behind her rounded Ray-Bans as the doors closed in front of her.

                “The vibe is strong today, I see.” Commented her assistant, who stood next to her, having been almost invisible to the other people in the lobby, such was the strength of the presence the designer exhibited.

                Andy took off her sunglasses and smirked.

                “I have to say, it’s a really handy trick. No one even looked twice, now look at that: an elevator all to ourselves.”

                Claire laughed openly.

                “Yeah, I have to admit it helps. Poor sods were frozen in their spots. All hail the mighty Alexandra!”

                Andy rolled her eyes, then looked at the numbers over the doors, slowly moving upwards. They enjoyed a short moment of companionable silence before Claire spoke again.

                “So, are you going to clue me in as to why James wants to meet with you? It isn’t another shoot for a spread, you’d have no problem sharing that information, what, with me being your assistant and all.” She goaded.

                Andy held a chuckle.

                “I would if I could, but then I’d have to kill you.” She retorted playfully.

                Claire whacked her on the shoulder in response.

                “Cut it out, Sachs! I’m your ruddy assistant, I need to know these things as well, or I can’t do my job!” she said, continuously and unceremoniously whacking one of the most famous fashion figures in the known universe.

                “Ow, ow, OW! Claire, cut it! I don’t know why she wants to meet, OK, I don’t know!” Andy begged out.

                Adding just another whack for good measure, Claire finally relented, focusing her attention on fixing the now rumpled sleeves of her suit.

                After a moment of silence, Andrea finally spoke.

                “She wouldn’t really go in detail about it, but I have a feeling… I have a feeling it’s about Saxton International.” She finally confided in a half whisper.

                Claire’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

                “Really? But you don’t think… It couldn’t be… I mean, the rumours are there, sure, but we have kept everyone involved pretty tight-lipped.”

                Andrea sighed pensively.

                “Yeah, but y’know… It’s been a secret without exactly being a secret. People expect it, just probably not as soon as we plan it. I bet Elizabeth has kept her ear to the ground, but why on Earth she would want to meet with me, I have no idea.”

                Before Claire could interject, the lift beeped their arrival at the floor where the _Runway Britain_ offices resided. The two women only shared a brief look before stepping into the corridor with purpose, going straight to the offices of the editor. The receptionist waved them straight through after one look from Alexandra Saxton, only taking a split second to page her boss, warning her of their arrival.

                The two were greeted by a smiling Elizabeth James, who had apparently been waiting just by her office door so as to open it for them.

                “Alexandra, Ms. Murdoch, welcome. Thank you for seeing me.”

                She motioned for them to take a seat by her desk, which was immaculate, something that threw Andy off. She remembered the Editor’s office to be quite messier. Looking around, she noticed gaps in the bookshelves, and a few boxes holding magazines, books, photographs and some knick-knacks.

                “Hello, Elizabeth. Moving some things around?” Andy asked politely, but curious.

                Elizabeth smiled before comfortably sinking into her plush chair.

                “In a way, yes. I am vacating this office” she said, taking into her companions’ shocked, yet cautions expressions. “Permanently.” She added, delighting in their surprise.

                “Retiring, I presume?” Claire tried.

                Elizabeth sighed contently.

                “Yes. Not officially for a little while, but it is time, I feel.”

                “Congratulations. You’ve done incredible work, the _Runway_ family will surely be sad to see you go.” Andy said truthfully. Besides a certain silver-haired devil, Elizabeth James was certainly the best _Runway_ Editor-in-Chief out of all of their publications. Andy appreciated the Brit’s methods, which differed greatly from Miranda Priestly’s. A formidable editor in her own right, she managed _Runway Britain_ with not so much of an iron fist, but calculated measures and careful, but justified manipulation. Her temper was nowhere nearly as mercurial as her counterpart’s in New York, but Elizabeth James had ways to get what she wanted through sweet and covert stratagems. People often underestimated her, which often worked to her advantage.

                “Oh, I’m sure they will” the Editor laughed, “but with my successor, I believe they will be al caught up on amazing things to even notice I’m gone.” She added cryptically.

                Andy and Claire shared a look.

                “So you have already chosen a successor?” Claire asked.

                “Yes. In fact, the choice was made about two years ago; I have been closely following this individual’s progress at a sister publication, and I believe they will continue _Runway Britain’s_ excellent standards, while bringing something entirely new to the table.”

                Andy did not fail to pick up on the little “sister publication” detail.

                “Sister publication? So it is someone from the _Runway_ family?” she prodded.

                Elizabeth winked at Andy in jest, clearly excited about how things were developing.

                “Ah, yes. A highly talented individual, who I believe has been under-utilised at their current position. It’ll be a jump, but they’ll be able to handle it, I have no doubt.”

                “Are you at liberty to share who this will be?” Claire asked.

                Elizabeth shrugged.

                “This is being kept under wraps. All I can tell you is that they’re coming from New York. Miranda and I have kept close watch on this person, and together, we have determined them to be the best choice for my position.”

                “And when is this all taking place? When are you retiring, ‘officially’?”

                “Oh, well, I’ll retire officially by next month. The next Editor must be ready by autumn, for Fashion Week. They will have their hands full, but I will be about, guiding them through the process.”

                “Very well,” Andy said, deciding to change the subject “what will a retired Elizabeth James be up to, then?”

                The British Editor laughed airily.

                “Oh, who knows what I’ll do with all my time. I believe I will travel, but for now, I think I still have quite a bit to do in the fashion world” she said, with a raised brow.

                “And” she continued, “Speaking of the fashion world, I wanted to talk about your next project, Ms. Saxton.”

                Andy crossed her legs, a little defensively.

                “My next project, Elizabeth.”

                The other woman nodded.

                “Well, for now what I have on schedule is a gown for the Duchess of Cambridge. She has an important benefit coming soon.” She said nonchalantly, fishing. As she predicted, Elizabeth shook her head.

                “As riveting as a dress for royalty may be, I believe I’m talking about a bigger project you have going.”

                Alexandra squared her shoulders and stared resolutely into the Editor’s calm eyes.

                “And what, pray tell, would that be?”

                Elizabeth herself leaned back into her chair, her gaze as intense as the designer’s.

                “I think you know. The rumours about your long-awaited expansion. Global expansion, one might say.”

                “One might say those are merely rumours.”

                The Editor rolled her eyes.

                “Please. You and I both know this is the time to do it; your popularity is soaring. You’ve stolen Fashion Week everywhere, not only with your jaw-dropping reveal, but with your exquisite collections as well. The world is watching, Saxton; the time is now.”

                Andy looked at Claire, who immediately took over.

                “Be that as it may, those are only rumours. We have no plans for expansion.” She lied.

                Elizabeth laughed sarcastically, but good-naturedly, in that sweet yet calculating manner that was practically an Elizabeth James trademark.

                “You mean to tell me that Alexandra Saxton, the finest designer of the year, no, the decade and most certainly beyond, has _absolutely no plans_ for expanding her brand?”

                Neither of the two women sitting across the Editor’s desk said anything.  

                “You mean to tell me you have no intention of getting more product out. Say, handbags, fragrances, make-up, and lingerie? I won’t ever have a signature Saxton scent at my vanity?” she joked “That would be incredibly unfortunate. You see, I had hoped to make my retirement a little more interesting by participating. Oh, how bored I shall be!”

                The Editor’s playful antic seemed to put the other two women at ease.

                “Why would you want to get involved, Mrs. James?” Andy asked, still with caution.

                “I don’t think you realise, but I’m about to become a very rich, very bored old woman. I don’t want to sit at home pruning the roses; I want to keep doing things that matter. Just not in publishing. I thought that, with my help, Saxton International could be launched in London, for the next Fashion Week.” Elizabeth clarified.

                Claire seemed to choke on her own saliva.

                “I’m sorry, Mrs. James.” She began once she recuperated. “But that’s awfully—no, sorry, that is _insanely_ soon. There is simply no conceivable way to pull off a project of this magnitude until then, it is simply not possible.” She reasoned weakly.

                Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, as if sensing something was amiss.

                “Ordinarily, yes. But am I to think the great Alexandra Saxton— and her mighty assistant— have not already taken steps in that general direction?” she prodded.

                Claire and Andrea shared a long, pensive look, as if silently communicating their thoughts to each other. Andy then turned to face the Editor once more.

                “You are right; this project is more than a simple blueprint at this point. I still think it highly unlikely it would be fully ready by Fashion Week.”

                “You say ‘more than a blueprint’. How much more?”

                Claire shifted uncomfortably, but was motioned to continue by her boss.

                “We have some collection samples ready; not quite everyday wear. Mostly formal, work. We have some manufacturing hopefuls lined up, but none ready to start production; we haven’t shared that much information as of yet. We’ve met briefly with Windsor Parfumiers, they’re currently working on…”

                “Ah! Looks like that signature Saxton fragrance is not far off after all!” Elizabeth interrupted, her excitement levels clearly increasing. Her eyes practically twinkled.

                “Indeed” Andrea interjected. “But that’s only a small part of the process.”

                “Seems to me you are all quite far along, considering. What do you need?”

                “An actual company. People to manage it, a trustworthy team to make the right decisions, to lead production and distribution, to get marketing to get… to get everything done, really.” Claire supplied helpfully.

                “As you can very well fathom” Andy continued, “it is a massive, massive undertaking.”

                “True, true. Establishing a fashion house of international renown is no easy feat.” Elizabeth conceded. “However, given the means, do you think such an… undertaking, as you say… would be possible, even on such a tight deadline?”

                “Well…” Andy murmured, lost for words, for once.

                “Well… I say keep this among us. But let an old rich woman waste her money as she pleases. I will help build this beast that Saxton International is sure to be. You don’t even have to start all out; you don’t have to be completely ready by Fashion Week. You only need to be ready to make the statement, to confirm once and for all you are here to stay. People around the world clamour for your clothes; you have had some collections out to the public, but only very, very exclusive, limited collections. Let me help you get Saxton into every high-end store worth shopping at.”

                Andy took a moment to think. It was certainly an enticing offer— Elizabeth James had countless resources and contacts that would make the building of an international Saxton brand much easier. However, the prospects were daunting; the creation of such a behemoth should not be rushed. There was too much to be done, and while they had _something,_ it made up only a small part of the foundation of such an enterprise. There was more than just design; there was manufacturing, production, marketing, distribution, an entire business aspect that was even more important than the clothes themselves, for without it, the brand would flounder before it even began.

                Elizabeth seemed to understand the brunette’s pensive state.

                “Let’s set a more modest goal, shall we? There’s no need to go full scale in such a short time. Why don’t we try for one thing; one aspect, one product to be ready to go by Fashion Week. Just one thing to gradually launch Saxton International. Does that sound feasible?” she prompted.

                The two other women once again shared a meaningful look. Finally, after long moments of deliberation, Andy relaxed into her seat.

                “No promises, Elizabeth. But maybe you should make some space on your vanity; that signature Saxton scent might be coming sooner than you think.”

               

               

               


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a filler chapter, I'm afraid. However, we make some progress on our lovely ladies Emily and Serena, plus some twin time. We will be moving along shortly. But first, finals. 
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

                “Nigel, open this fucking door right this second, or I swear to god I’ll… I’ll… I’ll bloody knock it down myself!”

                “Yeah, right, Emily. Go ahead, try it. With your spindly arms, I’d like to see what breaks first.”

                Emily slammed her fists onto the hard wood. The sides of her hands and wrists were already bruised. She knew Serena was there; Nigel was their closest friend from _Runway._ She had not bothered to check their own apartment; Serena had made it painfully clear that she would not be there. It had only taken the redhead about ten minutes to move her ass over to Nigel’s after realising how much of a jackass she had been.

                She hit the door again in vain.

                “Just let me talk to her! Goddammit, Nigel, I want to apologize!”

                Emily’s hopes raised when the door opened slightly, only to be dashed again as Nigel appeared through the small gap— he had not removed the inside chain.

                “What’s that chain for? I’m not going to bash my way in.” Emily countered.

                “Oh, really? Weren’t you going to knock the door down yourself?” Nigel retorted.

                The redhead had the grace to look ashamed.

                “I’m sorry. I just want to apologize. I want to talk to her.”

                “She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

                “Look, Nigel, I was a complete-”

                “A complete fucking asshole.” Nigel interrupted, his expression giving no room for discussion. Emily shrugged in acceptance.

                “Yeah. I didn’t mean what I said.”

                “Really, Emily? Are you sure? Because you thinking everyone is out to get you seems to be a recurrent theme.”

                The redhead backtracked, taken by surprise at his statement.

                “What on Earth do you mean by that?”

                He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

                “I mean this isn’t the first time this has happened. Whenever things don’t go your way, you shoot people down, ask questions later.”

                “I… I don’t understand.” Whispered the redhead, confused.

                “Cut the crap, Emily. You’ve had issues with this since before you got promoted for the first time. Ever since you were Miranda’s assistant, even. You basically sabotaged every girl that came on because you thought they’d take your job away from you. When Miranda told Andy to come to Paris or lose her job, you still took it personally.” Nigel accused, his voice sharp and exacting.

                “What? What does that have to d-”

                “You say there’s always a choice, but you don’t fucking know. You’ve never had to make the difficult ones. Do you have any idea the kind of choice Serena had to make? That Andy had to make years ago? Do you have any idea how painful it is to keep this sort of thing from you? I had to wait here knowing full well what was going on. You blame anyone but yourself… Or Miranda, for that matter. She can do no wrong in your eyes, it seems.”

                Emily sighed, holding back her tears. It was true. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t Serena’s fault; it was Miranda who orchestrated everything.

                “You’re so fucking blind in your… your worship for Miranda that you don’t see what’s right in front of you. Business decision or not, it’s Miranda who made those choices, it’s Miranda who put Serena and myself in this position, it’s Miranda who made Andy go to Paris, it’s Miranda who didn’t pick you for my job. Open your eyes for once.” Nigel scolded.

                The redhead choked back a sob, shrugging in defeat.

                “You’re right, Nigel. I bloody know, OK? I was a jackass. I am a jackass. Just let me talk to her, please?”

                “She doesn’t wan-” Nigel was interrupted by a delicate hand on his shoulder. Behind him, Serena motioned for him to go back inside, vestiges of mascara still marring her perfect cheeks.

                “It’s OK Nigel. Thanks.”

                The bespectacled man gave one last stern look at the redhead, but his expression was riddled with something the Brit couldn’t identify. Guilt? Shame? She didn’t have time to ponder. Serena stood where Nigel had previously, holding the door slightly ajar, not removing the chain. She stared resolutely into Emily’s blues.

                Emily sighed, her stance almost diminishing in shame.

                “You don’t even have to get into it. I regretted it the moment I said it.”

                Serena wiped away at her cheeks.

                “What you said, what you implied… It was really rotten, Emily. It really, really hurt. How could you think, how could you even insinuate that I… I can’t…”

                “I know. I know. I’m an ass. I… Didn’t mean to say it. It caught me off guard, and I didn’t catch my temper in time to keep it in check.” She looked at her girlfriend, who remained silent.

                “You didn’t deserve to hear any of that. Hell, I don’t deserve an ounce of your forgiveness, and there is simply no excuse for what I said. You’re a hell of an artist, Serena. You’ll be better than I could ever be.”

                Serena scoffed, a ghost of a laugh escaping her lips.

                “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

                “No. No, I’m not. I can’t apologize enough. I… Nigel was right. I’ve never had to make choices that difficult, so what the hell do I know, huh?”

                They were silent for a long moment. Finally, Serena took a deep breath and stretched out her hand through the narrow opening. Emily took it without question, lacing their fingers together.

                “You know, we have to do something about that temper of yours.” Serena pointed out. Emily laughed sadly.

                “ _I_ have got to do something about it. I don’t want it to happen again.”

                The Brazilian pinned her girlfriend with a stern look.

                “I do forgive you, Emily. But I’m not coming home today. What you said really, really hurt me. I need some space.”

                Emily tried not to look hurt, but something about her facial expression gave away how devastated she was. Serena squeezed the hand she held delicately.

                “Just one night. As I said, I forgive you. I love you, Emily, but what you said cut deep.”

                Emily swallowed hard, and nodded.

                “I understand. I love you too, I hope you know that.”

                Serena gave Emily’s hand one last reassuring squeeze before retreating back into the apartment. Emily expected the door to close, but was mildly surprised when Nigel reappeared, his look less grave and angry, his expression a bit calmer.

                “I don’t deserve her.” Emily said, mostly to herself.

                “Eh, sometimes you do. But you really have to work on that temper of yours, Em. It’s only going to bring you heartache in the future if you keep it up like that.”

                The redhead nodded in confirmation.

                “You were right; I don’t understand difficult choices, I don’t…”

                She was interrupted by her mobile. The jarring ringtone was set exclusively to one person.

                “Speaking of difficult decisions” Nigel said grimly, “You’re about to be acquainted.”

                He closed the door.

 

 

                “Moooom.  Come on.  We don’t need Roy there, the company will send their own driver.” Cassidy pleaded, in a childish whine that harkened back to her five-year-old manners.

                “Be that as it may, I want him there. God knows who the driver would be otherwise. I don’t know what kind of background checks that company does; I’d rather go with someone I trust.” Miranda retorted, serving Cassidy a healthy portion of broccoli, ignoring her youngest’s horrified expression once the vegetable was placed on her plate.

                “Don’t you need Roy to take you places? How would you ever get to work?” Cassidy insisted.

                “I’ll have you know, I didn’t always have a chauffeur.” Miranda retorted. “But if my transport is something that concerns you, Cassidy, I am sure you’ll be delighted to learn that _Runway_ has a team of drivers. I’ll do with a replacement for a day.”

                “This blows!” Cassidy said, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked at the pile of green on her plate. “Do I have to eat the broccoli?”

                A single signature Miranda-glare was enough for her to concede defeat and attempt to chew the vegetable, but not before drowning it in ranch.

                Miranda looked at her two daughters, in a rare family moment. They had been exceptionally busy for their last year of high school. Cassidy, especially, had her time mostly occupied by advanced science courses, which had her in the school’s laboratories more often than her own bed. She had developed the ability to fall asleep nearly anywhere, a skill Miranda thought would come in handy in her upcoming college career. Caroline, however, had her hands full with the school newspaper, the yearbook, and an internship at a fashion blog, in which she had a weekly style column.

                Tonight, however, they had a brief reprieve; their year was ending, and their focus was centred onwards, to their future. Miranda sighed; she could not believe her little Bobbsies had grown up so fast. In no time at all, she would be alone in her huge townhouse. It was not something she was looking forward to.

                “Have you completed your roommate questionnaire, Cassidy? You should do it sooner, rather than later.” She warned, remembering Cassidy’s proclivity for procrastinating.

                “Oh, yeah, I forgot” the girl said in between begrudging bites of broccoli.

                “What about you, Caroline? How are things on your end?”

                Caroline worried Miranda the most. She was very focused, which was good. Nonetheless, the editor was reluctant to send her little girl across the Atlantic Ocean for school. Why the girl couldn’t have picked a fashion school in New York, Miranda had absolutely no idea. No, it had to be London.

                “Could be better. That idiot Jessica messed up the layout for the sports spread on the yearbook. All of the text and pictures are out of alignment, and it was supposed to be the highlight of the thing, since all of our teams did so well this year. But no, she had to screw everything up. I don’t know why I bothered keeping her on the team, she’s useless.”

                “Language, Caroline.” Miranda scolded meekly. She really wanted to teach her daughter to be a little kinder, but she really would be the hypocrite of the century if she reprimanded her daughter for striving for excellence in _precisely_ the same way she had throughout her entire career. The similarities were simply uncanny; it was frightening at time.

                “Whoah, ‘Madame de Vil’, chill out. Jessica’s been having a hard time at home, her brother was in that car accident, remember?” Cassidy pointed out, finally done with her broccoli.

                “That’s irrelevant. He’s been out of the hospital and doing great for the past three weeks. She shouldn’t let that hinder her abilities to contribute.” Caroline retorted.

                “She’s been having to give him sponge baths!”

                “And if she knew it would affect her performance, she could have left the group. Or at least told me beforehand, so I can figure out how to redistribute everything.” Caroline said matter-of-factly.

                Miranda cringed. Uncanny.

                “Both of you, stop. Caroline, you find a way to accommodate Jessica— while maintaining your standard. Cassidy, stop with that ‘Madame de Vil’ nonsense.” She scolded.

                “It’s not me. Everyone in school calls her Cruella de Vil. It’s because she’s so mean to everybody.” Cassidy defended herself.

                “I’m not mean. I just don’t have time for nonsense.” Caroline stated simply.

                Cassidy dropped her fork in exasperation.

                “How’s her mangled brother exasperating??”

                “Her brother isn’t, her performance is exasperating. It has derailed the entire yearbook.”

                “Girls, stop, now! Caroline, it wouldn’t hurt being a little more accommodating. Being ‘mean’, as your sister puts it, isn’t the best way to do things.”

                “Yeah, Caroline. Take it from someone who knows.” Cassidy added, indicating their mother with a slight turn of her head. Caroline rolled her eyes.

                “I don’t see what’s wrong with calling someone out on shoddy work. One person’s mistakes put the whole project in jeopardy. I’m not going to let it.” She said resolutely.

                Cassidy huffed, defeated.

                “God, you are just like mom. You should see her at school, mom. The hallway clears out to make way for Cruella here.”

                “Cassidy!”

                “OK, OK, my bad. I’m just saying. You two can go be mega evil. Now, can we go back to the prom thing? Is Roy even habilitated to drive a limo?”

                Miranda and Caroline rolled their eyes simultaneously, which almost caused Cassidy to laugh.

                “Yes, Cassidy. I assure you, Roy is fully capable of driving a limousine.”

                “OK, spill it. You just want him there so he can watch us.” Cassidy accused.

                “Not exactly, though I do admit his presence is a great comfort to me. He’ll make sure you two don’t get into any trouble.” Miranda mused.

                “That’s not fair! It’s prom! We’re supposed to have fun and go wild.” Cassidy begged.

                “No. You may have fun at prom, but I want you two home safe and sound, and Roy will make sure of that. Do we understand each other?” Miranda warned, wanting to close the subject.

                “Fine. I still think it blows.” Her daughter moaned.

 

               

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

                Miranda sat at her desk at the unusually empty office, preparing for the arrival of her junior editor. She arranged the set of papers lying on her desk so that they would be neat and evenly spaced. It shouldn’t be long now.

                She had called Emily about an hour or two after they had arrived from Paris. The call lasted only long enough for Emily to agree to meet in two days and for Miranda to bark at Eliza, commanding her to clear her schedule for the day in question. This little project needed all of her attention.

                Elizabeth James had just flown in from London; Miranda had sent Roy to pick her up, and they should be there shortly. Miranda didn’t quite care whether Elizabeth was there or not, but the other Editor-in-Chief had insisted, saying she would like to break the news to her successor herself. It didn’t matter to Miranda; her plans had been going along remarkably well.

                Watching Emily Charlton’s development at _Runway_ had begun as soon as the girl was promoted to Junior Editor. Quite frankly, Miranda had only put her there because she didn’t know what to do with the Brit; she had talent, but Miranda seriously doubted the girl could break away from her neuroses even for a moment so she could tap into it. Luckily, she had been proven wrong: Emily flourished as an editor. However, the position would not give her enough power and liberty to exercise all of her qualities. So Miranda did what she did best: what she wanted. And she wanted to give Emily more responsibility. In order to test the redhead, the Editor-in-Chief gradually transferred tasks from other departments to her. Overseeing a shoot here, weighing in on fabric swatches for a spread there, scouting designers and so forth. The change was so gradual Emily herself seemed not to notice her duties far transcended those of a regular junior editor.

                Nevertheless, the jump from Junior Editor to Editor-in-Chief was almost unprecedented. Miranda herself was the only precedent for such a massive promotion, but those were other times. Still, Miranda believed Emily would be up to par.

                A faint knock on her door brought her attention to the entrance. Elizabeth James stood just outside, still sporting those awful shoes she insisted on wearing when she travelled. Miranda did not care if they offered “phenomenal comfort”, or whatever Elizabeth had said, the things were simply hideous.

                “May I come in?” the Brit ventured.

                “With those shoes? God, no.” Miranda joked. “I see why you’re retiring; you’ve clearly lost your touch.”

                “Very funny, Priestly.” Elizabeth said as she made her way over to Miranda’s desk, sitting down gracefully. She had a playful and almost daring look in her eye.

                “Don’t you dare put your feet on this desk, Elizabeth.” Miranda warned, seeing right through the other editor.

                Elizabeth huffed in defeat.

                “Please. You’re no fun.” She said, conceding defeat as she toed off her Crocs. She opened the small carry-on she had by her side, stuffing them inside as she grabbed a pair of much more fashionable Balenciaga pumps.

                “There. Better?”

                “Markedly.” Miranda confirmed. “I can’t believe those monstrosities have stepped into my office. I’ll have to have this place professionally cleaned. Perhaps those people who clean up crime scenes would be up to the job.” She added playfully.

                “Oh, cut it out, Priestly.” Elizabeth retorted. “I didn’t go through an eight hour flight for you to get on my case about my choice of footwear. Where’s Emily?”

                “She should be getting here shortly.” Miranda clarified.

                “Oh, good. I’m telling you, I can’t wait to be done. I love _Runway_ to bits, but I think it’s high time for a change.” Elizabeth mused.

                Miranda simply nodded.

                “When will it be your time, Miranda?” the other Editor asked.

                The silver-haired woman scoffed in laughter.

                “Oh, mine? Not for a while.”

                “Suit yourself.” Elizabeth conceded. The two women shared a companionable silence as they waited. Elizabeth was the one to break it.

                “How are the girls?”

                Miranda huffed, half in amusement, half in exasperation.

                “Nightmares, as usual. They’re going to prom soon. In a limo, no less. Cassidy was mad I’m having them go with Roy as their driver. She didn’t take the news well at dinner.”

                Elizabeth laughed.

                “Oh, they should know your ways by now. You’re always going to keep an eye on them.”

                The silver-haired woman smiled sadly, mostly to herself.

                “Not for much longer, I’m afraid.” She reasoned, her tone betraying her fear.

                The Brit was quick to lean in, speaking in a reassuring tone.

                “Don’t worry, Miranda. Cassidy is not going to be too far off in DC. And Caroline, well… You know I’ll be glad to help her in any way I can up in London.” She offered.

                Miranda smiled in thanks, but decided to change the subject. Talking about her Bobbsies going their own way made her sad.

                “What about you? What are you up to in your final stretch?” she prompted.

                “Oh, you know, the usual. Getting a few things squared off, mainly, nothing too big.”

                “Huh. I hear you met with Alexandra Saxton. Were you just chit-chatting, I gather?”

                Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

                “That assistant network is really toeing the privacy line.” She remarked.

                Miranda almost laughed. That was exactly how she knew; the assistants of the Editors had a sort of inner network, where they mainly communicated Fashion Week and other international plans. Of course, it was also a prime breeding ground for gossip.

                “Well?” Miranda prompted.

                “Yes, we met. We briefly talked about some spreads, and my retirement.” Elizabeth half-lied.

                Miranda could tell her English counterpart was clearly hiding something, but she had no time to prod any further. Another knock at her door signalled the arrival of their important visitor.

                “Emily, come in.”

 

* * *

 

 

                “This one smells like… a wet dog that rolled on grass that they just cut.”

                Andy rolled her eyes at her daughter’s description, but couldn’t help but agree with it to a certain degree. There was certainly a “grassy” element to one of the sample fragrances Munford Perfumers had sent her. Where Allie had gotten the “wet dog” bit from, she hadn’t the foggiest idea.

                “I take it you don’t like it then?”

                Allie nodded, scrunching her nose in unmistakable disapproval.

                “No. It’s not ‘you’ enough.” She declared.

                “Not ‘me’ enough? Huh. But these guys are some of the best in the world. They make many famous fragrances.” Andy countered.

                “Well, they’re obvi not good enough, or they would know what ‘you’ would smell like.”

                “How I smell like? Good heavens, I’m not exactly sending them samples of my own smell, Allie.”

                “No, not you-you, ‘you’. The thing that makes you ‘you’. Not you, ‘you’. Got it?”

                Andrea resisted the urge to physically shake her head, so as to shake away the confusion.

                “No, honey, can’t say I have.”

                The little girl scoffed in clear exasperation, crossing her arms over her chest. Before her daughter could explain it further, Andy waved away one of the little tester strips Munford’s had sent long with their samples. Her nose needed a break.

                “Come on, I’m sure you’d rather be smelling some pancakes than these things” she said, watching with delight as Allie’s face glowed with happiness.

                “Chocolate chip?” the child asked, hope twinkling in her little eyes.

                “Of course.” Andy winked.

 

                Allie looked on as a rate image of her mother graced their impeccable kitchen. Andrea had taken a moment to change into an oversized t-shirt, a relic from her college days, and track shorts. Her hair, usually in sharp ponytail or perfectly styled up-do, hung freely past her shoulder blades, stopping only at the small of her back. Allie absolutely adored seeing her mother’s hair down. It was mostly straight, with a few wavy strands here and there, but it fell onto her back wild and untamed. Ever since she had the ability, she loved to twirl her mother’s locks in-between her fingers.

                Andrea was currently at the stove, concentrating very hard on the perfect flip for the perfect pancake. Her previous attempts had been disastrous — as they always tended to be. Allie didn’t mind one bit, however. To her, it was like a secret that the pristine image of Alexandra Saxton simply couldn’t handle, so it was up for the mom part to show some clumsiness every now and then.     

                As young as she was, Allie seemed to understand better than most the line that defined Alexandra Saxton. She had heard Claire talk about how Alexandra and Andrea were like two different people, but the little girl knew better. There was Alexandra; the one the world knew. She walked with her head held high at all times. Her confidence was unparalleled, and so was her quest for perfection. Alexandra scared her at times; she seemed untouchable, like she would burn anyone who dared.

                Andrea, on the other hand, was a perfectionist in her own right, but one that seemed to have an unending fluidity to her. She wasn’t scorching, but warm. Her clumsiness showed in the little things she never did as Alexandra Saxton, the things she didn’t have to perfect; such as flipping pancakes or making the bed, or organizing her books. Andrea came alive in their little library, surrounded by words and comfort.

                To Allie, however, there was another line that separated both Alexandra and Andrea from someone else. Those two had been around since before she was born, but only one came into the world with her. Her mother was a mixture of the liveliness of Andrea with the sharpness of Alexandra. Her mother could be funny as she played with her in a rare day off, or she could be austere and strict when needed.

                The little girl contemplated all of this as the taller brunette disgracefully destroyed yet another pancake. She knew in her heart no one understood the adult in front of her as well as she did.

                “I’m sorry, Allie, but seems our pancakes are going to be slightly wonky… again” Andrea apologized.

                Allie smiled, a toothy, happy grin that went from ear to ear.

                “No worries, mum” she said. “They’re my favorite.”

 

               

 


	33. Chapter 33

 

                “Emily? Emily? Emily!”

                “Shush, Miranda, she’s processing.”

                “No, she is gaping. Is that drool?!”

                “Of course not, Miranda, don’t be ridiculous. Emily, dear, are you alright?”

                The gaping redhead finally woke from her sudden trance as the British Editor in Chief — but not for much longer — gently squeezed her arm.

                “There you are. You left us for a bit there.” Said Elizabeth, with a kind smile.

                The two Editors looked intently at her. Elizabeth’s eyes were filled with giddy expectation, while Miranda’s… Well, Miranda’s said “open your mouth and by God, say something coherent.” Emily fixed her eyes onto those of her mercurial boss, holding her gaze for longer than she had ever had in her entire tenure at _Runway._

                Funny. They weren’t quite blue. She wasn’t sure how she had never noticed that beautiful tinge of grey until now, especially after being on the receiving end of all those murderous glares. If anyone ever asked, she would say Miranda’s eyes were sky blue, and boy, was she wrong on that one. No wonder she wasn’t getting the Art Department job, she clearly couldn’t tell one colour from another. But if she wasn’t even good enough for the Art Department, why the bloody hell were they making her _Editor in Chief?!_

                It was obviously a mistake. Surely Elizabeth could get someone from _Runway Britain_ to run the bloody place. Why did it have to be her? She lived in New York, and she would much prefer to stay there. She was looking for a place to settle down, not move across the Atlantic. She and Serena were looking for a _permanent_ place to live.

                Serena.

                “Emily, it would do you good to say something.” Came a scathing voice that sounded utterly bored.

                Just then, Emily realized she had been staring directly into Miranda’s eyes, without saying anything. She had no idea what her facial expression was like, but it had to be quite something, since Miranda seemed to furrow her brows in discontent.

                The redhead tried to send her own steely gaze to her boss. She tried to convey the message in her eyes. Turning to Elizabeth, she braced for disaster.

                “Ms. Blake...”

                “Call me Elizabeth, dear.”

                Emily took in a breath.

                “Elizabeth. I’m very grateful for the kind offer, but…”

                “Elizabeth, could you give us a moment?”

                Miranda’s icy voice cut into Emily’s refusal, her eyes sending an even clearer message than the redhead’s previous “no.” It said “shut up, NOW.”

                Elizabeth looked uncertain for a moments, but Miranda’s gaze sent her on her way without much more hesitancy. The white-haired Editor waited until the door had clicked shut before turning to face the redhead directly.

                The two stared. The more Emily looked at Miranda’s electrifying blue eyes, those marbles of fury and destruction, the more she began to come to a startling realisation.

                She really, really wanted to punch her boss.

                It wasn’t the first time violence had occurred to her— far from it. Rather, it was the first time that she thought she would go through with it; a quick, swift punch square on that nose that was as famous as the head of silver head.

                Miranda’s mouth was moving, but the Brit did not register a single word. Those lips moved, no doubt forming some scathing remarks, but to Emily there was no sound whatsoever. All she could think about was how satisfying it would be to feel the crunch of that iconic nose breaking under her knuckles. Her hands automatically tightened into fists in anticipation.

                She would go to jail, of course. At the very least. She would consider herself extremely fortunate if Miranda didn’t send out a hitman to finish her off, after she had already blacklisted her first. She would lose everything, absolutely everything. But for a moment, it all seemed worth it, just so she could feel the satisfaction of a good old punch, a last burst of adrenaline before inevitable doom.

                “Emily, did you even hear a word I said?” Miranda’s icy tone cut into her deranged musings, and suddenly, the urge to punch her boss evaporated completely, turning into intense fear and absolute panic. She was going to lose everything. Everything.

                “Emily?” Miranda repeated venomously, looking as pleased as Emily guessed she would be for repeating herself.

                The redhead tried to contain her tears, she really did. Tears of anger, sadness and pain all wrapped into a wild combination of sniffles, sobs and cries. She was doing a damn good job of it too, until Miranda did something completely and utterly unpredictable.

                “Good god, Emily, let it out”, she said, a little cold still, but she reached for a tissue from the gold plated tissue box kept at her desk for decorative purposes (or so Emily had guessed, for she had never seen Miranda cry) and handed it to the Brit.

                “Wha-wha..? What? Why?” Emily babbled, stunned. Did Miranda just acknowledge another human being’s emotions?

                “Let it out now, Emily, because you will never have another opportunity to be this weak again. Let this be the last time you allow anyone — _anyone_ — to see you this vulnerable.” Miranda said, suddenly looking mildly uncomfortable, turning to look at Manhattan through her massive windows.

                Emily sniffled.

                “I don’t understand” she choked out through the sobs now wracking her body.

                Miranda rolled her eyes in typical Miranda fashion, but somehow the gesture lacked its usual malice.

                “You can’t show people you have feelings. You can’t cry, at least not around anyone else. This position does not and will not allow that.” Her boss clarified, with a hint of sadness in her eyes.

                The Brit sniffled, but steeled herself.

                “I can’t accept it, Miranda. You can fire me, bloody hell, you can have me blacklisted, killed, or whatever it is you do to people who don’t go your way. I can’t do it.”

                Emily got up, and was walking away. She briefly wondered if this overwhelming sense of dread and looming disaster was what Andrea had felt all those years ago when she finally plucked up the courage to leave. Did Andy, she wondered, feel this heavy sadness? She had imagined that, through the pain, she would feel at least a small sense of liberation, of breaking the chains and inching towards freedom.

                She felt none of that.

                She had also never considered the possibility — because really, when you thought about it, it was just preposterous— that Miranda would physically stop her from leaving.

                The redhead stopped dead in her tracks, the touch of Miranda’s hand on her shoulder stinging like an electric shock, reverberating through her entire body, making her heart race uncontrollably.

                In all of her years working for Miranda, physical contact was effectively zero. Their hands had never brushed, their shoulders had never bumped. It was like Miranda was constantly encased in a protective bubble. Sot the shock of having _the Miranda Priestly’s_ hand on her shoulder was quite understandable.

                The Brit recoiled instinctively — no one touched Miranda, even is Miranda was the one initiating it, or so she supposed. She figured the rule had to work both ways.

                If Miranda was surprised by Emily’s reaction, the Editor did not show it. Instead, she kept her hand on her former assistant’s shoulder, soft but commanding, physically restraining her departure with the lightest of touches.

                “Sit” she finally said, this time motioning towards the couch instead of the chairs facing her sleek desk. Emile complied, brushing the tears out of her eyes like a child embarrassed to be caught crying. Miranda only let go of her shoulder once they were both sitting.

                “I understand your refusal. It’s too much, too soon; you are just building your life here, you had your own plans for how your career should go, plans that are being scrapped and completely rewritten without your say” the editor paused, sending a cautious look in Emily’s direction. Meanwhile, Emily was trying to get over the absolute mind-fuck that was having Miranda attempting a heart-to-heart. What the fuck would come next, tea and crumpets?

                “However,” Miranda continued “I need you to understand how big of an opportunity this is. The jump from Junior Editor to Editor-in-Chief is almost unprecedented. Almost. There is only one other person who has accomplished such a thing, and that was many years ago, when this whole business was different. You’re looking right at her” she confessed.

                Emily’s eyes widened in surprise and awe. The revelation brought a bit of hope, not to mention satisfaction; Miranda saw a little of herself in her. That must be why she was being offered such a ridiculous promotion. They were alike. Emily had hoped it, Miranda seemed to know it.

                Something in the redhead’s suddenly hopeful gaze clearly tipped Miranda off.

                “You are nothing like me, Emily.” She deadpanned, seemingly annoyed she had to spell it out.

                Emily tried to hide how much the declaration had hurt her, turning away so Miranda could not see the fresh tears running down her cheeks. Miranda’s hand found itself on her chin, delicately forcing her to turn back. The redhead thought she was about to have a heart attack; she concentrated very heard on her breathing and tried to ignore the shivers of fear the gesture sent down her spine.

                “Oh, yes, I know how deplorable it may be to hear that. After all those years. All those years, moving heaven and earth to please me. Trying to get to my good side, if there even is one. Trying to make me see how hard you worked, how hard you tried to emulate me, to get on my good side, if there even is one. Trying to be noticed, to be loved, even.”

                Emily gasped in panic.

                “Yes. You must really think me an idiot if you thought I wouldn’t notice your little… admiration, that immature fancy of yours that bordered on worship. Frankly, it was almost inappropriate. It hindered your ability to work to your full potential as my assistant. You were good, but you were never great. You hated any girl who came on, particularly Andrea. You felt jealous, you felt threatened.”

                Emily bit her lip, trying to keep her tears at bay and failing miserably. They were tears of sadness, pain, but mostly anger. Anger at Miranda for knowing all along. Anger at herself for being stupid enough to believe she wouldn’t. Angry at this very situation, for making it all come to the surface. She wanted to yell, to lash out and deny everything, deny the possibility of something so absurd ever being true.

                But she couldn’t.

                “Honestly, I had chalked it up to fear at first, but soon enough I realised… well. I had hoped it would fade with time, it usually does. You were not the first or the last, you were exactly like every other girl before you. Fashion-savvy. Worshipped the magazine, worshipped… me. But it didn’t. I couldn’t keep you as my assistant then, when your little… infatuation prevented you from thinking for yourself. That’s why you became a Junior Editor.

                Somehow, Emily felt an additional need to cry through her already present tears. She hadn’t gotten the position due to merit. She hadn’t been recognized for her work. She had just been a nuisance that Miranda wanted out of her sight. Miranda simply continued talking.

                “And then, as a Junior Editor, you suddenly flourished. It was like working for me directly had put a stopped on your talent, your vision, your drive. You finally showed me your true, raw potential, not some dumbed down version that had pleasing me as its main objective.

                “So you basically promoted me so you wouldn’t have to deal with my… my admiration for you.” Emily choked out.

                “Don’t be obtuse. Didn’t you hear a word I just said? Do you truly believe I would have kept some inept bumbling imbecile at my magazine? Do you think I would even bringing such a person into the game to be the Editor-in-Chief of a sister publication? Absolutely not.” Miranda said, looking peeved.

                “You’re here today because you’ve outgrown your childish infatuation. You have built a reputation for your eye, your taste, your skills, your risk-taking. You discovered Alexandra Saxton, among many others. If I didn’t think you were a suitable candidate, we would not be having this conversation. Understood?”

                Emily nodded sheepishly. Her previous embarrassment at Miranda knowing about her early infatuation had given way to awe. Miranda Priestly thought she had it in her to be an Editor in Chief of _Runway Britain._ The thought alone was difficult to grasp. But there was still that other problem.

                “Miranda… I am genuinely grateful for the opportunity, but I simply can’t. My life is here, Sere-”

                “Let me make this absolutely clear, Emily” Miranda interrupted, her voice back to the cold timbre Emily was familiar with. “This opportunity comes with incredible sacrifice— don’t you think I know that? I know it better than anyone. But remember: there will never be another one like this. You know how well you manage your own life; you know how far you can go… or not. It all comes down to the right choices. I would hate for you to disappoint me with one of yours.”

                Suddenly, Emily realised Miranda was putting her faith in her. Miranda Priestly was vouching for her, in her own, heavy handed way. It was Miranda’s way of saying she believed in her. That she was destined for great things. Maybe.

                Miranda looked at Emily, almost hopeful.

                Emily blinked.

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! First author's note in a while... Well, I'm back! Sorry for the very sporadic updates. I'm very busy with uni at the moment, so I'm uploading whenever I have a free minute. Unfortunately, because of my lack of time, I haven't had the time to revise and check every chapter for errors (in grammar, structure, etc), so if you have noticed a few mistakes here and there, my apologies. I don't have a beta reader to help out, so my plan is to eventually go back to every chapter and look it over at some point. I don't know when that will happen, but I want to make this as clean as possible. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> An added thanks for all of you who have left me reviews. I love them to pieces, I love to see your reactions and to take in your thoughts about this story. It really makes my day. So thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.

“Did you hear about the announcement from _Runway Britain?_ ”

“Huh?”

Claire rolled her eyes, not entirely surprised by the reaction. Andy had not left her studio for about two weeks — she had been working nonstop.

“The official announcement of Elizabeth James’ retirement. It came out yesterday.” Claire clarified.

A flash of recognition burned through Andy’s eyes.

“Oh, really? That’s good. Have they announced her replacement?” she asked, her interest peaked.

“Not yet, but there’ll be a press conference later this week. Any idea of who could it be?”

Andy shrugged her shoulders. She had given the matter a little thought, as she would undoubtedly work closely with the next Editor in Chief of _Runway Britain_ , especially after Saxton International was fully launched, since she was headquartered in London. But she hadn’t come up with any viable conclusions. Elizabeth had initially said it would be someone from the _Runway_ family, someone from New York. Andy thought it would be Nigel at first, since she had heard he would be training someone to take over as Artistic Director. But Miranda had denied that in one of their recent talks.

Miranda. Now that was an unforeseen development. Over the past few weeks, the mercurial media mogul and Andrea had taken to emailing each other frequently. At first, the subjects revolved on Miranda’s grand plan for her 20 years celebration in the fall and Alexandra Saxton’s debut in New York. It was still early days, but of course Miranda had wanted to plan everything meticulously.

But recently, their emails had shifted. They always talked about work, of course, just not exclusively. Miranda would share a tidbit of how the twins were getting on her nerves, while Andy would share some of Allie’s most recent shenanigans with her new private tutor. She supposed it was a logical step, if they were to become, as Miranda had put it, _friendly.”_

_“No, not Nigel” Miranda had said in a rare Skype conversation, which had started as a way to talk face to face over a few of Andy’s ideas for the New York show. “I know what you’re thinking” she had said accusingly “you’re thinking I still owe him, for Paris.”_

_“I didn’t say anything of the sort” Andy retorted. The thought did come to her mind, but she thought it best not to bring it up._

_“It’s good to see that some of that righteousness hasn’t been burned by the Saxton flame. I was afraid it had been lost forever.” Miranda had said knowingly, almost to herself. The statement puzzled Andy, but she did not have the time to inquire further._

_“Don’t worry about Nigel. He’ll get his long-awaited reward, it just won’t be in London. Can you imagine Nigel Kipling in London? Now if it were Milan…”_

_Andy laughed. Nigel did like the Italians, but_ Runway Italia _was already under new management: Guillermo had made a quiet exit just a week prior, as Bianca D’Avalos took the helm of the sinking ship that was the Italian edition of_ Runway.

When Andrea had pushed the subject of Elizabeth’s replacement coming from New York, Miranda had deftly avoided the subject, and Andy could tell that doing so annoyed her immensely. So maybe the new EIC of _Runway Britain_ wasn’t coming from New York after all.

Besides anyone from New York, however, Andy had really no guesses. _Runway Italia_ was definitely out; Bianca already had her hands full with reviving the struggling magazine, and she already had made necessary staff changes. Anyone from _Runway France_ was also an unlikely option; Elizabeth wasn’t too fond of Jacqueline’s methods or the people she employed. From the rest of the _Runway Europe_ family, there seemed to be no serious contenders; _Runway Germany’s_ aesthetic was a little out there, and _Runway Russia_ was too new. Maybe someone from way out there; she had heard _Runway Japan_ had some promising editors, but Andy doubted they would fit in with the _Runway Britain_ aesthetic. So really, there was the Americas, but Andy doubted it would be someone from _Runway Brazil_ or the like, since most of them were struggling.

“Not really” she finally responded after lengthy musings. “In any case, it’ll be good to have Elizabeth free to work with Saxton International” she pondered.

“Oh yeah” Claire agreed, “it’ll be great. She’s been absolutely brilliant, I have to say. She makes this whole thing sound even feasible” she joked.

“Agreed. She’s helped everything run so… smoothly. It’s surreal, it almost feels too good to be true.”

“Yeah. She’s basically building this company herself; all the people she sent our way were fantastic. Speaking of those people, have you looked at the CVs I sent your way?”

“I uh… I skimmed them briefly” Andy dodged feebly. Claire sighed.

“Andrea, I know you feel like you should do it yourself, but trust me, it just isn’t doable. Not without you dying from exhaustion.” Claire reasoned.

Andy sighed, defeated. She knew Claire was right; she already had too much work as it was.

“I know, I know. You’re right. I just haven’t found the right person… yet.” She hoped Claire would swallow the half-truth and let it go.

No such luck. The blonde eyed her boss with a knowing smile.

“You don’t want to give up control of your creative genius. I get it, love. But you’ll have to find someone.”

“I know, I know…” Andy retorted, much like a petulant child. She knew Claire was right, in all accounts. That didn’t mean she had to like it. Claire was about to pick up the subject again when the sound of a ringing phone interrupted her overture. She turned to answer it while Andy busied herself with some fabric swatches.

Andy followed Claire’s half of the conversation, her interest piqued at the blonde’s incredulous expression upon answering.

“Yes? Who? Are you cert… But have you…? And she has proper identification? How the hell did she… Alright. When did she… What? The garden? Yes. I’ll let her know. Yes, thank you.”

She hung up, but her bewildered look remained. She turned to look at the brunette, but didn’t speak.

“So?” Andy prompted. “Who was it?”

“That was Bartley.” Claire said, her tone careful.

“Oh.” Andy mused. Bartley was her private chief of security, a burly Irishman who directed a team of bodyguards and other security personnel to keep the Saxton house — and its inhabitants — safe from prying eyes, paparazzi, or worse; actual crime. They were incredibly well-trained and extraordinarily discreet, which Andy was exceedingly grateful for.

“What seems to be the problem, then?” she asked, curious. It didn’t seem to be too big of an issue; whatever it was it had not been enough for Bartley to send the alarm.

“He said they intercepted a woman trying to break into the garden, through the back gate. She refused to go away and is demanding to speak to Andy Sachs.”

Andrea’s eyes bugged out in surprise. Who the hell would be trying to break into her home to talk to her? “Well, what does she want? Who is she?” she asked, worried.

Claire looked incredibly uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat and fidgeted, trying to find words.

“For Christ’s sakes, woman, spit it out!” Andy pressed impatiently.

Claire took a deep breath.

“Your mother.”

 

 

Andrea’s thoughts ran a mile a minute as she made her way to her basement, part of which had been remodeled to become a small office of sorts for her security detail. She stepped quietly and carefully, trying to maintain a façade of calm.

She had not seen Helen Sachs in almost a decade. They had exchanged very few, very tense emails and phone calls early on, but nothing more. But now she understood why Claire looked so uncomfortable. The elder Sachs was not generally a hateful person (or so Andy had thought before their explosive falling out), but she despised Claire Murdoch with every fiber of her being, despite the fact that the two had never actually met.

Her mind drifted to years before, to that fateful Thanksgiving trip to Cincinnati, when she had just started working at the _Mirror,_ all how it all began and ended over dinner. How her revelation caused complete and utter chaos in the Sachs household, with her father threatening to disown her and her mother threatening to lock her up until she ‘came to her senses’. She had expected some resistance, but to see her own family turning so readily against her, and with such ferocity, over something she had no control over was entirely unexpected. To this day, it gnawed painfully at her heart. She had entertained the idea of introducing her family to Claire over Christmas, slowly, so they could get used to the idea, but that plan was scrapped as soon as her own mother turned poisonous words against her.

_“Come with me” Claire had said upon her return to New York, in between tearful hugs and soothing kisses. “Come with me and get away from this city, get away from your parents, get away from this life. I know you hate all the memories you have here. Leave them behind.”_

_“To London? I can’t, Claire, I…” Andy had tried to come up with a reason to stay, but failed._

_“You have nothing left here, love. Come with me. You can start again, you can focus on your art, and we can start a life. We’ll open a gallery, we’ll live in a trendy flat, and we’ll go to all the museums you’ve ever wanted to go.”_

_And before New Year’s Eve that year, they were gone._

Andy shook herself away from her reminiscing as she finally reached the basement.

Bartley stood at the foot of the stairs, patiently waiting for her in his practiced countenance. She half-expected him to salute as she arrived.

“Hello, Bartley. She’s still here?”

“Yes, ma’am. We stopped her as she attempted to climb over the back gate into the garden.” He explained seriously.

“Thank you, Bartley. A few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

Bartley nodded and rapped curtly on the door, motioning for the other guard inside to leave. They both excused themselves and went upstairs, leaving Andrea alone.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the office, steeling herself for the first encounter with her mother in years.

Her first impression was that Helen Sachs had aged dramatically. She was skinny, frightfully so, and her hair was more white than the lush brown hue Andy remembered, so like her own. The older woman sat on a chair facing the security camera monitors, so she did not immediately notice Andy’s presence.   
                Andy cleared her throat, and her mother turned. Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized the newcomer was in fact her daughter.

“Andy? Andy. Oh, Andy!” she cried, stepping up and immediately enveloping her daughter in her arms.

Andrea stiffened as her mother rushed to embrace her. She realized she had become unfamiliar to the touch that had brought her so much comfort and security when she as younger. Her mother seemed to notice her discomfort, and quickly withdrew. She looked her daughter up and down, hardly believing this was the same little girl she had raised. She took in her hardened face, her impeccable clothes, the heels, the posture, all of which exuded power, confidence, and prestige.

“Oh, Andy, you look so thin. So, so beautiful, but so thin. How are you doing? Have you been eating, have you…”

“Stop” Andy snapped. “What are you doing here, mom? Do you always break into people’s houses for some friendly chit-chat?” she said acerbically, watching the glimmer of hope in her mother’s brown eyes fade completely.

Helen’s forced smile slowly dissipated.

“Well, how else would you expect me to see you? You’re under lock and key, surrounded by bodyguards, and…”

“How did you even find me?” Andy interrupted.

Helen Sachs looked mildly sheepish.

“One of those celebrity tours… Those that go to where famous people live.” She admitted.

Andrea held the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

“How could you even think that such a thing…”

“You changed your number! You changed your address! You changed your email, you changed yourself! You disappeared and then popped up again as this famous designer… I had no idea, how else could I find you? How was I supposed to see my own daughter?” Helen shrieked.

“You clearly can’t take a hint, mother.” Andy said venomously. She had never called Helen ‘mother’, it had always been ‘ma’ or ‘mom’. The new designation seemed to shake the elder Sachs profoundly. “I can take a hint. You said I wasn’t your daughter anymore. You said that. To me.” She fired back bitterly. Helen looked embarrassed.

“I said a lot of awful, truly awful things, Andrea. They were horrible. I was horrible.” Helen tried.

Andy let out a bark of laughter.

“What, you mean all of a sudden you want to take it all back? That I was abnormal, an abomination, broken, immoral? Shall I go on? Just an ‘I’m sorry’ fixes everything? Get with the program, mother.”

Helen looked desperate.

“I do regret it! I do! Andy, you’re my daughter. I love you, but…”

“Hah!” Andrea interrupted sardonically. “Yeah, all of that sounded like a great declaration of motherly love. So much warmth. So much love.” She spat, unable to contain her anger.

“I do love you! I regret ever saying those things, Andy, but I was hurt. You have to understand how much you…”

“ _You? You_ were hurt? You? What about me?! You sent me away like I was trash. How do you think that made me feel, mother?” Andy retorted in utter disbelief. Her mother’s words from so many years ago rang in her ears anew, the pain renewed as if she were going through all of it for the first time.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am.” Her mother bellowed, tears falling freely. Her lips trembled and her hands shook as she tried to speak through the sobs wracking her body.

Some chord in Andy’s heart twanged at her mother’s state, despite the years she had spent suppressing it with fervor. She didn’t speak, she merely looked on as Helen tried unsuccessfully to compose herself, holding onto the back of the chair as if she needed physical support to keep herself standing.

It took the older woman several minutes to compose herself. Through it, Andrea stood stoically a few steps away, with her arms resolutely crossed at her chest.

“I said many things I regret, Andy. I’m not going to say I didn’t mean them, because we both know that just isn’t true. But none of that should have mattered. I’m your mother, and I’m supposed to love you unconditionally, and I didn’t. I sent my own baby away, I can’t ever forgive myself for that.”

“And you think I can?” Andrea retorted through her surprise. She did not let either her shock or her disbelief show. Her mother treated her like a pariah for too long for her to believe her immediately.

Andrea had figured that her reveal as Alexandra Saxton would ultimately lead to a few characters crawling out from her past, her family included. But she had not consider the possibility of them actually trying to come see her; they had made it pretty clear that they wanted nothing to do with her.

Maybe her mother wanted money. That seemed to be pretty unlikely, as Helen Sachs had never been that kind of person. However, she had to admit that she never thought her mother would be the kind of person to turn her own daughter away because she wasn’t straight. So she supposed she couldn’t dismiss the possibility outright.

“Why are you here, mother? What do you want?”

Helen sniffled.

“I want to be in your life. I thought I would never find you again, but then… Then the world went nuts with the Alexandra Saxton stuff and I… I couldn’t let it go. To see how far you came, how much you’ve done… And I wasn’t there for any of it, and it is no one’s fault but my own.” She said, trying to hold back her sobs.

“You’ve done so much. So much. You worked so hard, and you created this amazing, beautiful thing, and I wasn’t there to see it. I had to find out from a magazine stand, from a tabloid at the dentist’s, from the TV.” She continued, her tears falling once more. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs.

“You have a daughter… I have a granddaughter and I didn’t even know it. I never got to know that my daughter was pregnant, I never got to help her with her pregnancy, I never got to pick out baby clothes. And it’s all my fault. I did that. I pushed you away.” She cried. “She’s so beautiful, Andy. She looks just like you. They had pictures of you two on _Page Six._ She’s so precious… And I wasn’t there to welcome her into the world. I wasn’t there to play with her, to spoil her like a grandma should” Helen continued, pleading.

“The guilt is eating at me, Andy. I’ve missed you so, so much. No matter what I believe, not matter what I think is right… I should never have turned you away. I regret it every single day.” Helen looked up to her daughter, and was caught by surprise by the shimmer in her eyes. As if she were about to cry herself.

“All I want is a chance to make it right. Even if you can forgive me, I would like a chance to be your mother again. To be in your life, as much or as little as you allow me to.” She finished, a glimmer of cautious hope returning to her eyes.

Despite all the years apart, Andy could see the sincerity in her mother’s eyes, she could hear it in her voice. She tried not to cry, but she felt her walls about to break: she had never allowed herself to cry for her parents again, but she felt there was nothing she could do. 

“I’ve missed you too, mom.” She finally said in a timid murmur, finally letting go of her tears.

This time, when her mother hugged her, Andy held on for dear life. There was so much to talk about, so much to figure out. She had not forgiven her mother yet, but she wanted to relish, even if just for a moment, on the comfort of her mother’s embrace.

The two women took several moments to compose themselves, even after their long-awaited hug. Helen wiped at her tear tracks, while Andy discreetly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“What now?” Andy asked, puzzled.

Helen took a moment to breathe.

“I know you’re busy. I know you… you got a lot going on. I’m in London for a few weeks, so if you have the time… we could… talk?” she said hopefully.

Andy nodded with a smile. Maybe they could mend fences. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She didn’t ask about her father; that would come later. For now, she would be grateful to have her mother back.

“Of course, where are you staying? I don’t know if having you here would be a good idea, but I can put you up at a nice hotel…”

“No, no. Please, Andrea, don’t give me any favors. I don’t want them, and I certainly don’t deserve them” Helen interrupted, before changing the subject. “Do… do you think I could meet… do you think I could meet Allie?” she asked, her eyes hopeful.

“Not today, mom, but sometime. It’s complicated, I don’t think she has registered that she has grandparents.”

Helen tried to hide her disappointment, but seemed to understand.

“I see. What have you told her about us, if anything?”

                “Not much…” Andy sighed. “I just said you guys live far away, and that it’s hard to see each other. But I don’t know how much she picked up.” She admitted. Her initial intention was to tell her daughter she had no grandparents; Claire was the one who convinced her otherwise.

                “I… I understand.” Helen said. “I’m sorry for asking, it’s just because I really don’t know. What of her father? Or have you and Claire…” she trailed off.

                Andy bristled, but controlled herself.

                “Her father is not in the picture. Claire and I are not together anymore.” She said honestly.

                “Oh” Helen said, genuinely surprised. “It’s just, you know, there are always pictures of her with you, and with Allie, so I thought…”

                “She’s remained a good friend of mine, as well as my assistant. She’s a lifesaver.” Andy explained patiently.

                “Oh, good. Yes, good. Did you ever get married, or…”

                “No” Andrea responded defensively “never. Man or woman.” She clarified.

                “Oh, no, it doesn’t matter. I’m just curious, that’s all. There’s so much I don’t know about you…” she said, her eyes sad.

                “Oh, mom.” Andy said, processing everything. “Don’t worry. You’ll find out.”

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get used to frequent updates, my friends. I just figured I had held out on you hold enough. So ta-da!  
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Naralanis

Serena held the strands of red hair up and away as Emily vomited. She grimaced, not in disgust, but in worry.

The redhead wiped at her mouth, her hand and lips trembling with weakness. She looked so weak, so fragile. Her beautiful blue eyes were glassy, surrounded by dark circles. Her skin was much paler than usual, with an unhealthy grey tinge to it. A sheen of sweat covered her face, making thin strands of hair stick to her forehead and sunken cheeks.

“I can’t, I can’t… I can’t do this.” she said softly, in a strangled murmur that broke Serena’s heart.

The Brazilian lowered herself onto the cold tile floor, enveloping her girlfriend in her arms, saddened by how cold and weak her body felt in her embrace. The Brit’s head fell onto her shoulder in defeat.

The day before, Emily had come home in a manic, almost delusional state. Serena almost considered the possibility she was drugged; she blabbered nonsense and seemed extremely paranoid, all of her neuroses flaring up at the same time. It took a lot of patience and a lot of tact to finally calm the redhead down and get her to speak up about what was going on.

“I’m gonna be Editor in Chief. Editor. Editor in Chief. Editor. Oh, God. Editor in Chief.”

The whole thing took a good while to process. Even longer to understand Emily was not having hallucinatory day-dreams, she was just getting an unbelievable promotion… In London.

The situation triggered a string of panic attacks, anxious dreams, and other issues Emily had not had to deal with for quite a long time -- ever since she and Serena had started seeing each other. Miraculously, however, the Brazilian seemed to instinctively know how to deal with all of it, breathing with her, calming her down and, perhaps most importantly, loving her unconditionally.

“I can’t do it” she said into the blonde’s shoulder after the latest vomiting bout “I just can’t. Look at me. I bet Miranda never poke her bloody guts out due to nerves.”

Serena rubbed comforting circles on her girlfriend’s back, letting out a chuckle.

“Querida, you know nothing about Miranda the person. Miranda the Editor, sure, but you have no idea how she would have dealt with it personally. She was a little younger than you are when she became Editor-in-Chief of _Runway France._ For all we know, she may have fainted when she found out.” she reasoned.

“Oh no, not Miranda” the redhead laughed wryly. “She probably knocked the previous Editor out of their chair herself.”

Serena laughed, glad that Emily was at least attempting some humour.

“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll never know. But you’re not Miranda Priestly. You’re Emily Charlton. One day, people will speak of you the way they do about Miranda.” she said encouragingly.

“Hah!” Emily barked. “I should hope not -- Bitch in Heels, The Devil in Prada, Ice Queen…” she trailed off.

“OK, that was a bad example.” Serena conceded. “If anything, you’d be the Devil in Westwood” she joked. Emily squeaked.

“I never did care for Prada as much as Miranda does…” she pondered.

“See? Already something different. Prada is so not your style, honey.”

“It’s not that I don’t care for Prada entirely…”  Emily began to elaborate, sitting up. Serena was pleased to note that some colour had returned to her cheeks. “It’s just… they haven’t innovated too much. They’re not as daring. They’re always amazing, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t give me goose-bumps. I want goose-bumps. They’re creative, but predictable… Am I making any sense?”

Serena smiled broadly, prompting a puzzled look from her girlfriend.

“What?”

“That right there” Serena began “is why Miranda and Elizabeth want you at _Runway Britain,_ querida. You’ve got talent, you’ve got eye, and you’ve got innovative taste, a young, fresh perspective. They want that.”

Emily gulped.

“Serena… You know I can’t.” she said after a heavy pause.

“Nonsense” Serena waved her off with a smile, though her eyes shone with worry. “You can’t pass this up. And think about it this way; you’ll be back home. You’ll be able to see your folks more often...”

“I don’t want to ‘go back home’! You’re my home now, Serena, don’t you understand?” Emily countered, her nerves clearly resurfacing. The Brazilian brought her fingers to the redhead’s lips, gently telling her to stop speaking.

“I know, querida, I know. I love you, and there is a part of me that wants you to stay right here with me — you’re my home as well.” She began softly.

“So I stay” Emily interrupted, speaking through the fingers resting on her lips.

“No” Serena shook her head. “I can’t let you pass this up. Think about it, what if it were the other way around? What if Miranda had decided I should go to _Runway Brazil,_ or something? I know you would encourage me to go” she reasoned.

“No I wouldn’t” Emily countered adamantly. “ _Runway Brazil_ is a glorified version of _Playboy._ ” She added, making Serena laugh.

“That is exactly why you would make me go — so I could fix it!” said with a smile, eliciting a disappointing grumble from the redhead.

“Emily” The Brazilian continued “you _have_ to go. You are destined for great, great things. I truly believe, from the bottom of my heart, that you have what it takes to become one of the greatest _Runway_ Editors of all time. Maybe one of the greatest fashion EICs of all time, right up there with Miranda Priestly.”

            Emily shook her head in disapproval, but Serena continued, undeterred.

            “Miranda knows you have great potential. She does, she’s not an idiot. And she may be a manipulative bitch that plays us all like pawns in her little game of chess, but she’s not an idiot. She’s got vision, and she’s got a vision for you.”

            “I don’t bloody care what Miranda thinks. Not this time. Some things are more important than a job, than a career. And you happen to be one of them.” She said resolutely.

            “I know, I know. I believe you. But you can have both. We can have both. It will be hard, but we can make it work.” Serena reasoned, albeit with less conviction than before.

            “No, Serena, we can’t.” Emily choked out, crying once more. “Look at Miranda. Three divorces. Three! One worse than the other. She has no friends, no social life that doesn’t revolve around work. She missed most of her daughters’ childhood. If she couldn’t hold it together, what makes you think that I can?”

            “You’re not Miranda” Serena said, holding her girlfriend by the shoulders. “We’re going to try harder. We have different priorities than she did. I’ll call you every night. We’ll talk every day, and I can come visit you from time to time…” she began.

            “With what time? Are you mad? You’ll be busy rejuvenating the entire Art Department, and I’ll be in charge… I’ll be in charge of an entire magazine! Plus, there’s the time difference!” Emily cried.

            Serena sighed in defeat.

            “I never said it would be easy” she said, the tears that had begun to well in her eyes finally rolling down her cheeks. “But we have to try, Emily, don’t you see we have to try? We have to. I would never forgive myself if I held you back from another opportunity.”

            “Serena…”

            “No, let me speak. I got the Art Department. It was your dream, your career to have. You wanted it for years, you worked hard for it… The only reason I have it is because had bigger plans, better things in store for you. If you don’t go, you’ll be a Junior Editor for God knows how long, and it would be another job you’ve lost on my account.” The Brazilian gasped through her tears.

            “Serena… Darling, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you! It was Miranda, she was…”

            “We have to stop with the Miranda this, Miranda that. Yes, she’s an evil, manipulative, frigid bitch that pushes people into corners. She pushed us to this point. But we have to learn to deal. We have to learn how to make difficult choices.” Serena said, with almost unwavering certainty.

            Emily embraced her girlfriend tightly, and the two held each other, letting their tears and fears out for several minutes. After what had felt like an eternity, they pulled themselves apart, gazing lovingly into each other’s’ eyes.

            “I wish I could hire you, so you could come with me.” Emily said sadly.

            “I’d be working for you, querida. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out” Serena said, moving to embrace her girlfriend once again, a spark of hope suddenly blinking into her mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Miranda was annoyed. Well, maybe annoyed wasn’t quite the right word to describe her mental state right that second, but she was certainly bothered. She realised that the simple designation didn’t do it justice either — besides, the list of things that bothered Miranda Priestly was an extensive one.

            She was bothered by Nigel, who seemed to be slacking with all the preparations for _Men’s Runway._ However, as bothered as she was, she had promised him she would not interfere — he was his own Editor in Chief now, after all — so the only thing to do was to remain bothered.

            She was bothered by Caroline’s secrecy in her preparations for university. For someone who was making the move across the pond for college, Caroline seemed to be remarkably calm about all of it, giving her mother absolutely zero updates on the situation, besides her acceptance letter. Even when prompted, the girl would evade most questions and simply affirm that she had everything under control. Miranda didn’t doubt her; she just wished her daughter would involve her in the process a little more, besides providing payment slips.

            She was also bothered by fashion, of all things. Well, not fashion in itself, but the way things were going in the fashion world. A string of particularly awful designs led her to drop James Holt altogether, Donna Karan and Thakoon seemed to be suffering from the dreaded post-fashion-week blues, and even Alexandra Saxton — Andrea, she mentally corrected herself— had not shown her as many designs as she would have liked. At least with Andrea there was no lack of inspiration; from what she had seen, it looked like the brunette was simply holding out on her. And that bothered Miranda.

            It had been remarkably odd, emailing her personally a few weeks ago. For some reason, she didn’t think it was appropriate. Miranda’s excuse was that she wanted to be more efficient, but she knew letting their respective assistants deal with contact would probably be a better use of their time. They were both awfully busy women, after all. The truth was, however, that Miranda actually enjoyed her talks with Andrea, be them via email or video-call. She could not deny the extreme relief she felt when they transitioned into a ‘friendly’ relationship; that certainly spared her more than a few headaches when she needed to deal with _the_ Alexandra Saxton.

            But ultimately, what bothered Miranda the most was Emily Charlton and her glacial decision-making pace. The Brit had requested time to discuss the offer with Serena, which was something Miranda pretended to be annoyed about. In truth, the discussion part did not bother Miranda at all, it was a big decision; of course Emily would need to talk to her girlfriend about it. Although she pretended otherwise, she knew just how much of a bombshell she had dropped on the brunette’s lap.

            What bothered her was that Emily had yet to come to her with a definitive answer, and there was only one more day to the time Miranda had allotted her. It led her to believe her final answer had the potential to be a refusal, although she refused to believe that possibility.

            What made Miranda a little more confident about getting a ‘yes’ from the redhead was Serena. Miranda knew the Brazilian would encourage Emily to go, so she had to make use of that. Serena, with her pure heart, honest intentions and almost annoyingly altruistic spirit. She would not want for Emily to miss such a career-defining opportunity.

            Part of Miranda genuinely felt bad for the pair, but that was a part deep, deep down inside, hidden from view from anyone other than herself. Separation would be unpleasant, of course; she knew that better than anyone. But if Emily was not strong enough to handle that, Miranda would have to think twice about making the girl a fellow Editor in Chief.

            Still, Emily’s delay bothered her. Elizabeth James had already announced her retirement, they needed to move fast. It didn’t help that Elizabeth had told Miranda she had a ‘just in case’ option, a young Beauty Director from _Runway Russia_ by the name of Yelena Galperina. Miranda rolled her eyes at the thought. The Russian Director was talented, but too green. Granted, Emily was technically ‘green’ as well, but she had worked directly under the Devil in Prada to learn much more than the Yelena woman — whoever she was— could ever grasp.

            The ringing of her phone interrupted her train of thought. She picked up without a word; her assistant knew what to do.

            “Miranda, Serena from the Art Department wants to have a word with you” Eliza’s disembodied voice sounded through the receiver, making Miranda roll her eyes yet again. How many Serenas did that girl think worked that office?

            “Send her in.” she said, curious about what Serena could possibly want to talk about. Talk about timing.

            The tall Brazilian walked into the pristine office with a confident gait that bespoke of a seasoned runway model. God only knew how many times Miranda had tried to get the girl onto her pages, but Serena would have none of it.

            The blonde wore a stoic expression and a newer Alexandra Saxton ensemble that for whatever inexplicable reason made Miranda’s stomach flutter.

            “How can I help you, Serena?” Miranda said, ignoring the flutter and using her best bored tone.

            Serena didn’t sit. She stood facing Miranda, looking directly at the Editor with a defiant glimmer in her eyes.

            “I want to talk to you about Emily.” She said, not bothering with formalities.

            If Miranda was taken aback by her employee’s attitude, she did not show it.

            “If this is about Emily’s upcoming promotion, I suggest you take it up with her.” The silver-haired Editor said coolly.

            “I did” The Brazilian retorted acerbically, in a tone that was entirely unlike her. “She will be coming by tomorrow to tell you she is refusing it.”

            Miranda’s eyes widened only slightly, but that was enough to tell Serena she had not been expecting an outright refusal.

            “Well, if that is what she…” Miranda started coldly.

            “I’m not done” Serena interrupted, her eyes showing a fire the likes of which were unprecedented for her usually reserved personality.

            “I’m not about to let Emily ruin her career because you gave her an impossible choice” she continued brazenly. “So I’m making the choice for her.”

            With that puzzling statement, Serena forcefully slapped a folder onto Miranda’s desk. Sparing only a bemused glance at the Brazilian, Miranda opened it cautiously, reading through its contents quickly.

            “You’re resigning?” she said upon reading it twice, unable to fully conceal her shock. Out of all the outcomes she had considered, she had not seriously thought Serena would sacrifice her career for Emily’s. For some absurd reason the realization made her want to laugh.

            Serena nodded in confirmation.

            “I’m the only thing keeping Emily here. If I’m free to go, she’s free to go. It’s that simple.”

            Miranda read over Serena’s resignation letter once again. She repressed the inexplicable urge to laugh.

            She had completely underestimated Serena, completely overlooked her as a key player, and the blonde had just shown she had some claws. Having one pulled out from under her should have made her furious — it usually did— but right then and there, she just wanted to laugh.

            Maybe she was going crazy.

            Emily would be just fine with Serena by her side. Just fine.

            She looked up at the blonde, who still stood in front of her desk, the look of sheer determination unwavering from her eyes.

            Miranda would much rather have to replace an Art Director than a potential Editor in Chief. It was a trade-off she was willing to make.

            With a quirk of her eyebrow and a smirk that utterly bewildered the blonde, she took the resignation letter in her well-manicured hands and ripped it into pieces.

            “You’re fired.” She said with a smile, confusing the blonde even further. “Stop by HR on your way out, then by Financial to collect your severance check. That’s all.”

            Serena turned to go, extremely confused by Miranda’s antics.

            “And Serena?” Miranda’s voice called out with more than a hint of mirth.

            The Brazilian turned to face her.

            “Yes, Miranda?”

            “Good luck.”

 


	36. Chapter 36

“Good lord… This is insane, Miranda. Absolutely insane. I don’t know how you do it. Hell, I don’t know how you’ve done it for so long.”

Miranda rolled her eyes at Nigel’s comment. What else did he expect? There was a price that came with the title of Editor in Chief. And that was work, work, work.

“Well, Nigel, it’s to be expected. Being Editor in Chief is quite different from being Art Director, if I may say so myself.” She said. Nigel let out a bark of laughter. “And remember, you are starting a magazine from scratch; it requires grueling work, especially at the beginning. Hopefully you can handle, or I’ll be extremely disappointed” she added, with no malice.

                She would never have guessed how much her personal relationship with Nigel would improve after he was appointed to spearhead _Men’s Runway._ A sort-of friendship they had when they had both just started at _Runway,_ which had rapidly deteriorated over time, easily sprung back to life.

                “I still can’t believe it. But finally we’re over that little hiccup, hopefully we’ll be back on track in no time.” He said, a hopeful gleam shining in his eyes behind his spectacles.

                They had originally met to discuss Serena’s resignation; a piece of news that absolutely delighted Nigel, not for the fact that she was resigning, but that Emily would have her love by her side during her big transition. “I’m a hopeless romantic,” he had said at the news. Their primary intention was to discuss a suitable replacement for the Brazilian, but that matter had been surprisingly resolved in a matter of a few minutes; Nigel had tapped Neil Baxter, a promising employee who was already working at the Art Department, after he defected from _Vogue_ (a little tidbit that delighted Miranda to no end).

                Somehow, from there, they found themselves sharing a bottle of Glenlivet, late at night in her office, talking about everything _Runway,_ everything not _Runway,_ and everything in between. The conversation had recently shifted to Miranda’s 20th Anniversary Gala. Despite being a bit early, with Miranda being Miranda, preparations had already begun. Hundreds of designers were flooding her with sketches and ideas for her dress, one more complicated than the next. Miranda and Nigel had been laughing at many of them for a good half hour after their brief rapport on being Editors-in-Chief.

                “Look at this. What is Thakoon thinking? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s very Thakoon, but it’s not anything Miranda” Nigel said, looking at some extraordinarily complicated sketch.

                “Yes, quite. I’d need steel beams to hold that monstrosity up.” Miranda remarked, her cheeks reddened by the liquor. “Did you see what James Holt had sent me before we dropped him?” she asked, amused.

                “No, but please, don’t spare me the fun.” Nigel laughed.

                Miranda briefly rummaged through one of her drawers, pulling out a folder thick with sheets and sheets of paper. She handed it to Nigel with a smirk.

                “Brace yourself.”

                Nigel opened the folder, his eyes bugging out and his lips instantly pulling into a wide smile.

                “Goodness gracious! What is this arc going over your head?” he asked through his chuckles.

                “I believe he said his inspiration was ‘over the rainbow’” Miranda clarified with a roll of her eyes.

                “Well, this is so not Kansas anymore” Nigel laughed.

                It was very odd to have this friendly situation with Nigel once again, but neither chose to comment on it. Miranda found herself being grateful for the ability to lower her defenses when she was with him. There was a time when they had been very close friends, but as her influence and power rose, so did her walls. He had also been focusing on his career at the time, so it seemed their friendship simply fell to the wayside. Miranda was glad to have it back.

                “There are some good contenders, though. This Valentino is exquisite, and I really liked Lagerfeld’s offer as well.” Nigel pointed out. Miranda waved him off.

                “Yes, yes, they are quite acceptable.”

                “But?” he prodded knowingly.

                “They don’t feel right. For whatever reason, they don’t feel appropriate for my 20th anniversary as Editor.” Miranda said.

                Nigel thumbed through the pages in his hands once more, pensively.

                “You know who I don’t see here? Alexandra Saxton.” He pointed out.

                “Hm, no, Andrea hasn’t sent me anything for the gala.” She said.

                “Well, did you ask?” Nigel prompted, then at Miranda’s half-hearted glare, he put his hands up in surrender “Whoops, my bad, my bad. I forgot you were the mighty Miranda Priestly.” He joked, “But I seriously think you should consider asking her. Her work always looks particularly good on you, it has for years.” he reasoned with a wave of his hand that indicated the very pantsuit Miranda was wearing, from Alexandra Saxton’s latest collection. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he could have sworn a deeper flush or red graced the Editor’s features at his point.

                “Well. Yes, she does seem to understand my taste.” Miranda conceded.

                “She always has, I reckon. Even way back when.” Nigel said.

                Miranda’s eyes widened slightly, and she quirked her eyebrow in confusion.

                “What on Earth do you mean?” she asked, puzzled.

                “Miranda, look back to when she was your assistant. Andy was the best damn assistant you ever had, by far. Sure, she had a rough start, but after a while… I don’t know, it was like she could get in your head. Like she could read your mind, don’t you remember?”

                Miranda only nodded. She did remember, how Andrea seemed to know what her thoughts were before she did herself. How the once ditzy girl became a confident woman right before her eyes. How she went from a scared, bumbling idiot to a professional, efficient worker. There were times when Andrea’s evolution back then truly astounded her, but that was nothing compared to the changes she underwent to become Alexandra Saxton. For some reason, it chilled Miranda to the bone, but not entirely in an unpleasant way.

                “I swear, the way you guys carried on sometimes… There were times where I could have sworn there was something else going on.” Nigel carried on absentmindedly.

                “What on Earth do you mean?” Miranda suddenly asked. Nigel looked like a deer caught in headlights, as if he had said something he wasn’t supposed to say.

                “Uh, I… Nothing, nothing, Miranda.” He tried, in vain. There was no escaping Miranda’s curious but murderous glare.

                “Spit it out, Nigel.” She said menacingly.

                He sighed.

                “Well… it was a rumor going around… I had nothing to do with it, honestly” he claimed in a tone that said precisely otherwise “but… some people, around the office, I mean, some people were under the impression that… well, you know how these things go, they thought, completely erroneously, obviously, but some people around the office seemed to think…”

                “Nigel! Out with it!” she snapped.

                “Some people around the office seemed to be under the impression that you and Six were sleeping together.” He said quickly.

                Miranda’s eyes bugged out, and before she knew it she had inhaled a full dose of Glenlivet. She choked and coughed rather ungraciously, the liquor burning in her throat and Nigel’s words ringing in her ears.

                “Wh-what?” she finally rasped out.

                It took Nigel a moment to process his boss’ question. He was a little busy getting over his shock at Miranda Priestly’s total discomposure at his statement. He had never given the rumors much credence, after all, Miranda was married, and most importantly, straight. Even if she sung that way, he had very much doubted she would risk her career for some fun on the side. Now, he was surprised to be second-guessing himself.

                “Uh.. It was a… a rumor going around at the time.” He said.

                “Who on Earth would come up with such ridiculous accusations? And most importantly, why?” she demanded, her cheeks still flushed. Whether it was anger or embarrassment, Nigel couldn’t tell. What he could tell was that this was one of the biggest emotional responses Miranda had ever had to… well, pretty much anything. He tried to reason with his ex-boss.

                “Well… to be fair, Miranda the way you two carried on drew some attention here at the office. It was just so different from how you had acted with any of your assistants before… God knows there were a lot of them.” He said.

                “How was it ‘different’ as you say?” Miranda pushed, her voice unusually raspy.

                “It was little things, Miranda. To any other person, they would mean nothing, but because it was you, and because it was Andy, they all seemed glaring. You looked the girl up and down whenever she emerged from the closet like a tiger looking at dinner.” He pointed out.

                This time the flush of red was definitely from embarrassment. Inwardly, Nigel was losing his shit. Was there something there?

                “I did nothing of the sort.” Miranda huffed, but she sounded like a kid caught with their hands in the cookie jar right before dinner. “If I did look at her, I was merely ascertaining the improvement of her wardrobe. My job requires a certain appreciation of the human form to be done properly.” She argued weakly.

                “Sure, sure” he conceded unconvincingly “but to us, it looked like you had an appreciation of her form in particular.”

                “That would be simply because the improvement the right wardrobe had on her was exponentially bigger than anyone else to ever work here. Don’t you remember those hideous polyester blends?” she reasoned.

                Nigel rolled his eyes.

                “If it were only the looks, Miranda. It wasn’t. It was something about the way you interacted. You always walked awfully close to each other, she handed you coffee instead of setting it at your desk. You had Roy ferry her around town on her errands; any other second-assistant had to take the subway or a cab. You even shared elevators with the girl!” he said, listing off his points on his fingers. “It may not sound like much, but because it was you, it was basically a confirmation. That’s why Emily used to be so jealous of Andy; she carried a torch for you for a long time.”

                Miranda shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She had never given her actions much consideration back then, but now, in hindsight… She shook the thoughts away.

                “Well, that is all very interesting, Nigel. But I wonder, didn’t the fact that I was _married_ at the time occur to anyone in this office?” the Editor argued.

                Nigel quirked his brow in amusement.

                “You know this is New York, right? Who here would be surprised by infidelity? Although I note that you didn’t bring up the fact that you were both women. For all I know, Miranda, you’re straight, are you not?” he countered.

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “Of course, I am straight, Nigel. Yes, why didn’t _that_ occur to anyone either, care to explain?”

                “This _is_ New York. And the fashion industry, I might add. Who here even bats an eye?” he replied with a smirk.

                Miranda eyed him angrily.

                “I believe I liked you much better when you were scared of me.” She confessed.

                “Oh, I still am” he reassured her. “It’s just the whisky getting to my head. But tell me something: you were devastated when Andy left in Paris. Don’t try to deny it, everyone saw it. Devastated. And then you had poor Emily add _The Mirror_ to your subscription list? To everyone, that just sounded like confirmation. Andy leaving was like a scorned lover calling it quits. You stalking her every article at _The Mirror…_ like someone who’s not over a break-up.” He joked, half-seriously.

                Miranda almost groaned in frustration. What was with his delusional man? And everyone else in her office, too?

                “Nigel, drop it.” She warned menacingly.

                “Alright, alright” he finally conceded. “But what about asking Andy about a dress for the gala? It isn’t a bad idea. All her clothes are very you. It’s like they were all made specifically…” he trailed off for a bit, his eyes bugging out for a second. Miranda was busy distracting herself with some of the more acceptable sketches that had been sent her way “for you.” He finished, almost pensively.

                “It might not be a bad idea” Miranda replied distractedly. “It would be fitting, since it will be around the same time as Alexandra Saxton’s debut in New York.” She mused. Yes, it would be a great idea. She could see how Andrea handled the pressure to design a gown for Miranda Priestly. The young woman had designed for a few famous actors, but for the Editor of _Runway_ at a major fashion event? She would like to see the brunette’s approach to the task. Besides, two Priestly women already had custom Saxton gowns, and they were for some trivial high school rite of passage. Miranda didn’t want to miss out.

                Another thought came into the Editor’s mind. Elizabeth James’ farewell gala was coming up soon. Maybe she could have Andrea design her something for that. It would be like a test run. Besides, Miranda would be in London anyway, aiding with Emily’s transition. It would be a good opportunity to see if Alexandra Saxton had what it took to dress Miranda Priestly herself.

                Miranda wasn’t too worried.

* * *

 

                Andy had just put Allie to bed, after a tiring session of Wii Sports. She thanked her lucky stars the little girl had liked the games; it was a way to get some activity going when paparazzi kept them holed up inside. Besides, it didn’t involve destroying the house playing ‘The Floor is Lava’; as amusing as that was, a few items had been broken before.

                Emily had called her a few days before, to speak about her promotion to Editor-in-Chief. Andrea had been quite surprised, but looked forward to working with the redhead. The official announcement had been released at a press conference earlier that day, to much fanfare. Elizabeth James had also called to share the good news, excited about her work with Saxton International. Andy was thankful for the former British Editor; she had been a godsend.

                Claire was working upstairs, looking over details for the building of Saxton International. The woman was also a godsend, Andy mused. She’d be lost without her, that much was certain.

                She pondered over life at the moment. Besides her mother’s sudden appearance a few days before, things had normalized somewhat. She and Helen Sachs had exchanged a few phone calls; her mother had been very respectful about her time, and very patient. She had yet to meet her granddaughter, but that was something Andy had to prepare for that emotionally. The fact that Helen was being very patient about everything sparked some hope in her heart; maybe they could mend fences yet. They had been very careful to avoid family topics, the past, and Claire, but otherwise their conversations had been more than cordial. She was thankful for what she got, and was fearful to ask for too much, too fast.

                As Andy walked into her study, she noticed a blinking light on her laptop. Upon a closer look, she realized it was a Skype notification… From Miranda. As soon as she got to her desk, there was another incoming call from the Editor. She picked up.

                “Goodness, moving glacially, aren’t we? Have you any idea how many times I’ve called? I was about to abort mission.” Miranda’s disembodied voice came through before the video loaded. Andy smiled.

                “Good evening to you too, Miranda. I was tucking Allie in.” Andy said.

                “Oh, yes. I seem to have forgotten about the time difference.” Miranda said absent-mindedly as she came into view. “How is the darling Alice?”

                Andrea opened her mouth to respond, but momentarily forgot how to speak to do the shock that followed Miranda’s image. She was obviously freshly showered, and wore a grey bathrobe that Andy could have sworn was the same one she had worn in Paris. She didn’t look directly at the camera, but sat at her home study’s couch looking at some papers she had in hand. Her laptop was obviously on a side table, giving Andy a view that was eerily reminiscent of the one she had when she walked into Miranda’s hotel room in Paris. Only this time, there were no tears.

                Andy swallowed, aware of her suddenly dry throat.

                “Andrea?” Miranda asked again, turning her blue eyes to her screen to look directly at Andrea. The brunette scrambled to speak.

                “Oh, ah Allie’s fine, she’s fine. Great, even. She’s having fun with her new uh.. tutor.” She babbled.

                Miranda raised a quizzical brow. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought she was speaking to the Andrea of eight years before, the one who still feared her mere presence. What on Earth would have possibly caused the mighty Alexandra Saxton to revert to that state? She thought back to Nigel’s ridiculous ideas and immediately turned to look at the papers in her hand once more.

                “Ah, that’s good. She’s a lovely child.” Miranda said, somehow forgetting what she meant to call Andrea about.

                “Thank you” Andrea said, regaining her practiced composure. “She speaks of you often.”

                Miranda turned to look at her screen once more.

                “Is that so?” she asked.

                “Oh yeah” Andrea affirmed with a smile “She absolutely adores you. She’s wondering when you’ll be coming to London again, she wants to thank you for the Louvre visit by taking you somewhere… If you would be agreeable, of course” she continued cautiously. Sure, Miranda had been kind enough to show them the Louvre after hours, but who knew if she would want to spend hours with a small…

                “I would love to” Miranda responded earnestly, interrupting Andy’s train of thought. The brunette smiled.

                “She would really like that. But be forewarned, I don’t think her tastes would be as sophisticated as the Louvre.” Andy joked. Miranda smiled softly.

                “Even if they were, I would not be surprised. But I believe she will be pleased to note she won’t have to wait long; I’ll be in London soon to oversee Emily’s transfer to Editor-in-Chief of _Runway Britain._

                It was Andy’s turn to raise a brow in confusion.

                “You? But isn’t that Elizabeth’s job?” She asked. Miranda shrugged her shoulders.

                “We seem to be sharing the responsibility. I’ve invested a lot of time on Emily, and I would like to make the transition as smooth as possible. Besides, there will be Elizabeth’s farewell gala, so I will remain in London for that. I assume you have been invited?” Miranda asked hopefully. Andy nodded.

                “Yes, she came by to drop off an invitation.”

                “And I would be correct in assuming you will be attending?”

                “Yes, Miranda, I will be there.” She confirmed.

                “Excellent. This brings me to the purpose of my call” Miranda said, setting down the papers she had been looking at. She took a moment, seemingly to organize her thoughts.

                “I would like for you to design me a gown for the gala.” She finally said. Andy contained her surprise.

                “Oh?” she simply said.

                “If you have the time, of course. I’m aware the schedule is a bit…”

                “No, no, I have time.” Andrea interrupted eagerly.

                “Splendid, then” Miranda said with a smirk. “I should warn you, if I am pleased with your choice of design for this gala… I would very much like you to design another gown, for my 20th anniversary as _Runway_ EIC.” She said finally.

                Andrea’s eyes widened slightly. Miranda wanted her to design gowns for her. She would design gowns for Miranda Priestly. The Miranda Priestly wanted to wear personalized gowns from Alexandra Saxton. She could not contain her smile.

                “I would be happy to design a gown for you” Andy said honestly. “I’ll send you some sketches as soon as I have them. If you like them, I’ll get to work, and when you get to London, we’ll have a fitting. Does that sound agreeable?” she asked with a grin.

                “Acceptable.” Miranda responded, grinning right back.

               

               

               

               

               


	37. Chapter 37

 

 

 

 

                _New Editor-in-Chief of_ Runway Britain _announced! Coming back home from across the pond at_ Runway, _Emily Charlton takes the reins from Elizabeth James!_

_Priestly protégée picks up where London Lady left off_

_Rising through the ranks: Priestly apprentice to take up EIC chair at_ Runway Britain

               

                Looking at the tabloids and blogs made Emily’s stomach lurch. But maybe it was the airplane food, because even if it was fancy airplane food, it was still airplane food. Or maybe it was the turbulence. The glass of wine she had before probably wasn’t helping either. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that she was sitting right next to Miranda Priestly at first class on their way to London.

                The entire situation was surreal. Miranda never sat with anyone, she usually had a seat reserved for herself. But today, Emily, little ole Emily Charlton was sitting next to her, shaking like a leaf. This was going to be a long flight.

                “Have you given serious thought to your living arrangements, Emily?” asked her silver haired boss… No, ex-boss. As of the day before, Emily Charlton was no longer employed at _Runway_. Well, at least not under Miranda Priestly.

                “Yes. I mean, yes, Miranda.” She stuttered.

                “And have you come to a decision?” Miranda continued, thumbing through a rival magazine distractedly. Emily tried to get over the mind-fuck that was having Miranda attempt small talk.

                “Not yet, Miranda.” She answered honestly. She and Serena had taken a look at a few flats, but with her new position at _Runway Britain_ and the amount of press the announcement had generated, she was thinking she’d have to hire a discreet letting agency. For the moment, she would be staying at Elizabeth James’ home, of all places, while Serena stayed behind for a couple of weeks as she trained her replacement and organized the move. Emily was exceedingly grateful her girlfriend had volunteered to take on the task; she already had enough on her plate.

                “When you get a chance to do so, call up the Alexander Strauss agency. I believe they were the ones who found Elizabeth’s home. They also helped me with my vacation homes in Scotland and Germany” Miranda added absent-mindedly.

                “Yes, Miranda.” Emily automatically replied.

                “And, Emily?”

                “Yes, Miranda?”

                “Stop with the ‘yes, Miranda’ nonsense. You’re an Editor-in-Chief at a _Runway_ magazine. Act like one” Miranda said in a playfully admonishing tone.

                “Yes, Mi- I mean, yes, of course. Thank you, Miranda” Emily blabbered.

 

* * *

 

 

                Andrea mingled at the gathering for press and staff that followed Emily’s arrival at the _Runway Britain_ offices. Quite a few British or Britain-based designers were present, and she had just finished a rather pleasant and riveting talk about ethical fabric sourcing with Stella McCartney. At the moment, she made the rounds, occasionally responding to a few questions or posing for pictures. It was odd, the posing. Since she had always been hiding in the shadows of anonymity, she had not really worried about any of that throughout the years. Suddenly, it became a huge part of her life in the public eye. Luckily Claire had coached her some.

                “I don’t know about you, but those canapés are looking lovely.” The blonde said, licking her lips and making Andy laugh.

                “Canapés, right? You wouldn’t happen to be eyeing Eleanor Farrows by the table there, huh?” Andy said knowingly.

                Claire rolled her eyes, caught.

                “Yes, you got me. Come on, Andy, she’d be a great for Saxton International, I think she has great taste, great aesthetic. Have you seen her pictures? Her composition is insane. She might be the next Annie.” she reasoned.

                Andy chuckled.

                “Go get ‘em, Claire. Poach her for us!” She said approvingly. The blonde did not wait even a second to run over the sought-after photographer, immediately introducing herself in that effortless professionalism that was all Claire.

                She took another champagne flute from a passing waiter. She had yet to talk to Emily, but she’d have time… Loads of it. She’d be working in close proximity with the new Editor after all, since she would featuring Alexandra Saxton spreads on the magazine. She turned to look at the redhead in question, who was at the moment with Elizabeth James, fielding more questions from reporters. Andy was pleased to note that Emily seemed to be in control of her nerves.

                “She has a lot to learn still.” Said a velvety voice from behind, startling. Andy quickly turned herself around to see Miranda standing extremely close, so as to speak directly in her ear.

                “She seems to have a handle on things.” She reasoned with a smile, pleased to see the Editor. Miranda looked… flawless, as she always did. She was wearing an incredible gown (Valentino, Andy noted without surprise), a black work of art patterned with white in such a way it seemed to reflect and cast shadows on itself. It was very Miranda, and it was exquisite.

                “For now. Emily is prone to meltdowns every now and then. I hope, I do so hope she overcomes them sooner rather than later.” The silver-haired Editor smirked.

                “I seem to remember you live on hope.” Andrea countered, a smirk tugging at her lips as well.

                Miranda turned to face the brunette, an amused gleam in her eyes.

                “I thrive on it.” She said simply.

                The two women took a moment to measure each other up — it was becoming the norm, almost like a ritual that had to be fulfilled every time they met. It was daunting, it was nerve-wrecking, and, Andy contemplated, exhilarating.

                “You look stunning, Andrea.” Miranda said honestly, appreciating the black and gold dress the brunette wore with extreme elegance. Her hair was tied in a stylish top knot, with a few tendrils falling gracefully on her creamy neck.

                “Thank you, Miranda. You don’t look so bad yourself.” Andrea replied, hiding her sudden bashfulness. She looked around Miranda. “Where are your assistants? I don’t think I’ve seen you at an event like this without at least one.”

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “My second assistant is back in New York. My first assistant was tasked with sweet-talking Eleanor Farrows into a shoot for Fall, but I believe she hasn’t been successful.” She lamented playfully. Andy made no effort to hide her grin; she knew full well Claire would still be talking to Farrows, probably deflecting any attempts to approach the photographer.

                “Yes, I think my assistant got to her first. Hopefully it won’t cost poor Eliza her job.” She joked.

                “Hm, I’m not quite sure. Maybe it’ll give me the perfect excuse to go away with her; she’s really not that useful.” Miranda replied with some humor. Andy laughed, pitying the poor girl.

                “Poor girl. There are definitely a few parts of being your assistant I don’t miss.” She said jokingly. However, Miranda’s eyes clouded slightly at the statement.

                “Only parts? I would have imagined the whole position was not something to be missed.” Miranda retorted snarkily.

                “No” Andy said honestly. “It was a grueling job, don’t get me wrong. Awful hours, on-call at all times… Less than stellar pay, ridiculous demands” she ignored the glare Miranda shot her way “and little to no recognition for a work well done. But it has its moments. I learned a lot from it.”

                Miranda rolled her eyes in typical Miranda fashion.

                “Pray tell, what did you learn from the job a million girls would kill for?” she asked sourly.

                “First of all, I learned how to deal with difficult people.” Andy retorted, delighted in Miranda’s huff of annoyance. “I consider myself somewhat of an expert.”

                “Of course you would.” The Editor interjected.

                “I also learned how to think on my feet. How to read in-between the lines. How to have the confidence I need to get what I want when I want it. I learned not to take no for an answer. I learned to value and appreciate fashion. I learned how massive and influential this industry is. I learned to read people, to guess what they want. And I guess I learned how to work hard to get what I want.” The brunette said honestly.

                Miranda’s brow went up, but a smirk was tugging at her lips.

                “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten the most important thing.” She said with a worried look. Andy shot her a puzzled glance in response. Miranda indicated Andy’s feet with a gentle jerk of her chin. “You’ve learned how to walk in heels.”

                The brunette laughed freely.

                “I really enjoy your humorous side, Miranda.” She said.

                “I’ve coming to appreciate it myself as of late.” Miranda confessed. It was true, she had been relying on her witty, ‘funny’ side more often, particularly when she found herself conversing with Andrea. It had been a subconscious shift at first; she had only come to notice it in their more recent conversations, either via emails or video-calls. It had taken a little while to understand why, exactly, but eventually, she realized she was trying to make Andrea smile.

                The thought alone was absurd. Miranda Priestly never felt the need to make anyone smile. The only people who laughed while in conversation with here were her daughters, and that was usually unprovoked for Miranda’s part: they just found some things she said randomly funny. Teenagers.

                But with Andrea, it was entirely different. Miranda found herself wishing to elicit that 1000-watt grin she had come to know when the brunette had worked at _Runway_ as often as possible. She realized that when she smiled, Andrea reminded her the most of the old Andrea, the ditzy assistant. It was comforting to know she hadn’t been scorched to ashes by Alexandra Saxton’s flame.

                “So where’s the rest of your entourage?” Andrea interjected. “Only one assistant, and I haven’t seen Nigel yet.” She pointed out.

                “Nor will you” Miranda said. “Not in London at least. He’s terribly busy with a project in New York. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you and catch up when you’re in New York.” She elaborated at Andrea’s bemused expression.

                “Busy with a project, huh? Anything you can tell me about it?” Andy asked, legitimately curious.

                “I’m afraid not. Be patient, you’ll know when the time comes.” Miranda countered cryptically.

                “Secretive, are you?” Andy prodded.

                “You’re one to talk” Miranda retorted “hiding in the shadows for eight years… I’d dare say you are the secretive one. I wonder why it had to be so.”

                Andy shrugged her shoulders, but her eyes turned serious.

                “I wanted to avoid certain things, certain memories.” She said.

                “And those would be?” Miranda asked, not sure if she should be.

                Andy seemed to take a moment to herself before turning and fixing her gaze directly onto Miranda’s.

                “You.”

                Miranda backtracked.

                “Yes, I imagine the terror of the Devil in Prada would be best forgo—”

                “That’s not what I meant” Andrea interrupted frantically. “I mean, I’m not going to lie. I was scared. But not necessarily of you. I was scared of… your reaction, I guess, if you ever found out I was back into fashion. I was scared of your judgement. I’d been under it for so long, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it if you hated my designs, or told me they were hideous.” She said, attempting a half-truth. “I don’t think I’d be able to take that kind of rejection.” She tried to simplify.

                Miranda’s breath caught I her throat. Rejection? She had to refrain from physically shaking her head to clear her thoughts.

                “How do you think I handled your rejection?” she said in a murmur, watching Andrea’s eyes bug out.

                “I thought you would be fine. I mean, it would be an inconvenience to hire a new assistant, but since you’d hired so many…” Andrea trailed off. She wasn’t sure what was happening then and there. What kind of rejection were they talking about?

                “Your departure was… more than a simple inconvenience, Andrea.” Miranda said, her deep blue eyes enigmatic.          

                “My dep—”

                “Miranda! Alexandra! A picture together?”

                The two women spun to face the photographer yapping at them. His overture had caught the attention of other photographers, who were beginning to flock to where they stood. Miranda turned to look at Andrea once more, noting the brunette was already looking in her direction. Their talk would have to wait.

                With a fake grin towards the photographers, Miranda pulled Andrea closer by her waist, ignoring the sharp intake of breath the move elicited from the young woman. If her own hand felt almost numb as it rested on Andrea’s waist as they posed, she ignored that too.

               "Smile, Andrea." 

               


	38. Chapter 38

                In a similar set up as the last time she had been there, Miranda found herself standing in the lobby of the Saxton home while Andrea went for a small public outing to distract the paparazzo. Only this time, she was not greeted by Claire Murdoch: instead, she was welcomed in by a diminutive version of Andrea and a familiar tabby cat.

                “Hello, Miranda!” Alice yapped happily as Minerva rubbed her furry body at the Editor’s calves as a greeting. The white haired mogul did her best to ignore the feline at her feet, turning her attention to mini-Andrea instead.

                “Good afternoon, Alice. It’s good to see you” she said, meaning it, “but I was expecting to see your mother’s assistant.”

                Alice’s smile didn’t give an inch as she went on talking.

                “Oh, Claire is out today. Well, not out, out, but she’s not at the house today, so Mary was going to come and let you in, but Mary had a problem at home so she couldn’t come, so Bartley was gonna do it, but then I asked my mom if I could do it and at first she said no, but Bartley said there’s no way anything’s happening because the paps would be out so in the end my mom let me come let you in.” she said in a single breath, which frankly amazed Miranda. The editor blinked, trying to process everything.

                “Oh, mum told me to take you to the study. Off we go, do you remember where it is?”

                “Yes, I believe I do. I think that was where Minerva and I were first acquainted.” Miranda said, still amused at Alice’s rapid fire speech. It reminded her a lot of Cassidy as a young child (sometimes even at present, still). Caroline had been just the opposite; from the moment she learned how to speak, she seemed to measure her words.

                “Okay, great! We can go there. Mum should be home soon, has she told you about the trip I’m planning for us? I hope not, because it’s supposed to be a secret!”

                “If it’s a secret, how come you’ve told me about it?” Miranda pointed out, bemused. She suppressed a real bark of laughter as the girl’s eyes widened in sheer horror.

                “Oh, no! I can’t believe it! I ruined it! Wait, not, it’s OK, you still don’t know we’re seeing _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”_ She carried on, clearly oblivious to the fact her big secret outing had been revealed. Miranda rolled her eyes good-humoredly; she’d indulge the girl for now. It was just as well, this gave her some time to prepare for her impending outing at a children’s musicals. She much preferred the classics, but decided to make an extra efforts, if only for Andrea’s peace of mind.

                Alice led the fearsome Editor to the Saxton residence’s cozy study, blabbering about _Runway,_ clothes, _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ and her mother, all the way up the stairs and into the study. While talkative people generally irritated Miranda to no end with their inane conversation, she was surprised to be delighted with Alice’s animated chatter, taking in every little detail the girl deemed important enough to share.

                Once they were finally in the study, Alice gracefully opened the door for Miranda with an exaggerated bow. Miranda laughed openly as she sat on the same chair she had had her previous encounter with the Sachs’ cat.

                “Mum said not to bother you while you waited for her.” Alice said, clearly chagrinned.

                “Did you mother teach you to be nice to your guests?” Miranda asked with a quirk of her brow.

                “Of course! She says we’ve got to have manners and make our guests happy to be here!” the little brunette responded in a heartbeat.

                “Well, then I demand you stay, since I’d be quite unhappy if you left me here all by myself.” Miranda replied, surprising herself with her candor.

                It was worth it — Alice’s eyes gleamed, and her smile, so similar to her mother’s, went from ear to ear.

                “Yay! I mean, if you say so. Would you like to see my drawings?” she fired back, changing subjects in the blink of an eye.

                “I would love to” Miranda replied, doing her best to keep up. Clearly raising Cassidy had prepared her to deal with children’s erratic thought processes quite well.

                Alice practically skipped towards a heavy mahogany filing cabinet that sat beside her mother’s desk. She opened it giddily, taking out a couple of notebooks. She bounded back to where Miranda was sat, a determined and excited look on her face.

                “Alright” she said, setting three notebooks side by side on the coffee table facing the Editor. “I have three kinds right now. Clothes” she began, pointing out each notebook respectively “people and animals, and stuff.”

                Miranda was impressed with the child’s level of organization, though she conceded that the notebook labeled “stuff” could hold pretty much any kind of drawing. But because she was Miranda Priestly, she just had to see what the one labelled “Clothes” had in store.

                “Hm…” she pretended to ponder “I am sure they are all delightful, but it would be negligent of me not to take a look at your clothing art — I am the Editor-in-Chief of a fashion magazine, after all.

                By the expression of pure joy in the little girl’s face, Miranda was confident that was what Alice had been hoping for.

                “Great!” she exclaimed merrily, taking the notebook and setting it onto the arm of Miranda’s chair and opening eagerly.

                Miranda smiled as she flipped through the colorful pages, listening carefully to Alice’s detailed descriptions of each item she had drawn, Though still rudimentary in form, it was clear that some of Andrea’s artistic talents had been passed on to her daughter.

                It was very strange, to interact so willingly with a child that wasn’t her. Apart from Caroline and Cassidy, Miranda had neither the time nor the patience to deal with them. Until she became a mother herself, she had never had any desire to submit herself to a child’s antics — she had to learn to have the patience and will after the twins were born, and it had been the greatest transformation of her lifetime. Still, besides her darling Bobbsies, she had not known she could find the same joy of interacting with a child. It was oddly satisfying. Alice’s enthusiasm and delight in sharing her drawings genuinely touched Miranda. It was like reliving the few but precious moments she had shared with her daughters when they were young.

                The silver-haired editor was aware of Andrea’s presence the moment the brunette made her extremely quiet entrance, which went completely unnoticed by her daughter. Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda saw Andrea lean against the doorjamb, crossing her arms and smiling, the amusement at the unlikely scene clear in her features. Miranda would have greeted her, but Alice was in the middle of explaining a particular jacket she had concocted (a number that featured air-conditioning and a self-drying component), lavender with “whitey stripes and stripey straps”, as the little girl had put it.  The Editor didn’t quite understand the brunette’s line of reasoning behind the design, but allowed it; Alice was six, after all. She patiently waited for the little girl to finish before turning to Andrea.

                “Andrea, I believe you have been holding out on me” she said, holding back a chuckle at Alice’s horrified expression upon realizing her mother had been watching them. “Who knew Alice was so talented? I believe I’ll have to bump you off— she will do nicely in your stead.”

                Andrea laughed, trying to maintain a façade of mock anger.

                “I see how it is, missy” she said, eyeing her daughter. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you try to topple my empire, huh?” she accused.

                Despite her initial shock at being caught, Alice composed herself remarkably quickly, now looking at her mother mostly unfazed, if not a bit smug.

                “Oh, mum, calm down now, there’s more than enough pages on _Runway_ for both of us.”

                Miranda and Andrea shared a hearty laugh as the brunette lead her smug daughter out.

                “So” she said, turning to her former boss once she closed the door behind her “time to talk business. Fancy a drink?”

                “Only if you’ll join me.” Miranda said with a smirk.

                Andrea seemed to hesitate, but it lasted for maybe half a second, so Miranda could not be certain. Regardless, Andrea made her way to the small bar.

                “I’m afraid I don’t have your beloved Macallan in stock… Will my lowly Glenfiddich do?” she joked.

                “If I must… God knows what you’re asking of me, but I’ll do my best.” Miranda huffed good-naturedly.

                Andrea flashed Miranda a smile, then made her way to where the Editor sat. She watched as the Editor took a healthy sip of whisky offered, slowly throwing her head back in delight when she was done. Realizing she had been staring, Andy quickly busied herself with her own drink before Miranda could notice.

                “I didn’t take you for a whisky woman, Andrea.” Miranda remarked quietly, her head still thrown back and her eyes still shut. Andrea simply laughed.

                “Well, you didn’t take me for a fashion designer either.” Andy pointed out.

                “Touché” Miranda conceded. “It seems you are full of surprises. I wonder how you’ll manage to surprise me next.” She said absent-mindedly.

                “Well, I didn’t tell you about my husband.” Andy baited.

                Miranda’s head whipped back forward in a flash, her eyes wide.

                “You…” she then took in the brunette’s playful expression “…little twit.”

                “Gotcha good there, didn’t I, Priestly?” Andrea said, clearly very amused.

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “By surprise, yes, yes.” She said, immensely delighted by how Andrea had sounded like her old self just then. She was willing to let that little prank slide, if only for that little treat.

                “Why would me being married be surprising, though? Here I was, thinking I was a total catch.” The brunette bemoaned playfully, obviously getting a kick out of the editor’s reaction. Miranda huffed, unfazed.

                “Well, forgive me for the wrongful impression I gave you. Maybe you are a… catch.” She said, finishing with a wink that almost made Andrea choke on her whisky.

                “What did you…”

                “Or maybe” Miranda continued, not giving Andrea the chance to respond “you simply aren’t the marrying kind” she finished with an evilly comical smirk.

                Andrea narrowed her eyes in a mock glare.

                “I take it back… I’m not so sure I like your funny side after all.” She said.

                “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it.” Miranda retorted, very clearly having a lot of fun.

                Andrea rolled her eyes in faux-exasperation.

                “What am I supposed to do with you, Priestly?”

                “I thought I was here for a fitting.” Miranda said, pretending to sound distracted.

                “I see how it is. Right down to business!” Andrea said. She downed the rest of her drink, setting her glass on the table between them. “Alright then. I know you said you had already picked from my sketches, but I want you to take a look at the physical models first.”

                Miranda could not hide her surprise.

                “You mean to tell me… You actually made each of your sketches into a gown already??” she said, incredulity tinging her voice.

                Andrea shrugged her shoulders.

                “Well, a sketch and the real thing are pretty different. You told me you found all of the options agreeable, so I decided to give you more to go on than just a drawing. They’re not complete, they are mostly here so you can get a better idea.” Andrea said simply.

                Miranda’s eyes were wide, but besides shock there was more than a hint of excitement.

                “Andrea… You sent me just about 12 complete sketches. You expect me to believe you actually made 12 gowns?” she asked.       

                “They’re not final versions!” Andrea retorted in her defense.

                “Still.” Miranda said, with a quirk of her eyebrow. “I am very impressed.” She admitted.

                A warm, tingling sensation overtook Andy’s body at Miranda’s praise. It was a feeling she knew well, though she was not accustomed to it. She could, however, remember the very first time she felt it, or at least something very similar to it: when she emerged from the Closet at _Runway,_ clad in the thigh-high Chanel boots that elicited a shocked but approving look from Miranda Priestly. She had felt it much more strongly though, when she slapped a copy of _Harry Potter_ onto the smug editor’s desk, utterly perplexing the woman.

                She shook it off, standing and looking intently at Miranda.

                “Well, come along. We don’t have all day, do we?” she said with a smile, automatically extending a hand to help the other woman up.

                Miranda seemed to pause at Andrea’s offered hand, almost contemplating the situation. Her mind shifted to the few times they had actually touched: a handshake here or there, and then the one time at Emily’s introduction event for _Runway Britain._

                That had been a fluke.

                Miranda had not meant to hold the young woman by the waist, nor pull her towards herself. She remembered the numb throb she felt in her hand until well after they had separated for the night, and spent almost hours wondering why it had happened. It clearly was a shock to the brunette too; she had not been able to hide it.

                Which really was no surprise. Miranda supposed that a business-like shake of hands was not a particularly momentous occasion. But maybe having the Devil in Prada deliberately touch someone was a little too odd to comprehend. For her part, Miranda agreed. She didn’t know what had possessed her to touch Andrea in that way. She even feared it to be unprofessional, but the brunette had no complaints.

                When she had gotten back to her hotel that evening, she decided she had been overthinking the whole thing. It was quite common for women to pose in that manner for photographs. It had only felt unusual because she was Miranda Priestly, and that was that.

                After what seemed like an eternity, she took Andrea’s hand, and was once again caught by surprise by the small surge of electricity that seemed to come with the touch. Andrea seemed mostly unfazed, but Miranda noted the hairs in her arm standing up.

                It seemed they both had to get used to casual touched.

                Andrea helped Miranda up, wondering why the Editor had not protested. Miranda was not the kind to accept help of any kind, even as a common courtesy. The thought evaporated from her mind, however, as soon as she and the Editor were face to face.

                “Well” she said, diffusing whatever weird moment was transpiring “gowns are up in my studio”

                Miranda smiled. “Show me the way”.

 

* * *

 

 

                Miranda had been expecting Andrea’s studio to look a lot like her home study: cozy, warm, inviting, comfortable. Upon getting there, she felt like an idiot: of course the studio would be the polar opposite. The study was for Andrea Sachs. The studio was for Alexandra Saxton, and it felt that way. Once again, the duality between the two was almost stifling; it was night and day. She should have realized it the moment a sleek number pad popped out of the wall so Andrea could input a password to grant them entrance.

                The studio had really been a spacious attic that had been transformed into a creative space. It was abundantly lit, as half of the sloped roof was entirely made of glass. A marble table sat close to the glass surface, basked in the natural grey tinge of London. Pencil cups and metal storage cases were scattered on it. A drawing table with an under-light was attached, a few papers with rudimentary sketches still on it. Next to it was a metal cart with art supplies. In a corner was a white painted background, along with lights and camera equipment. A few mannequins sat by the other side, neatly arranged, and behind them, a gold-like folding screen obscured part of the room.

                The place barely had any walls; half of it was glass, with an astonishing view of the Thames. The few walls beside the one reserved for the photography equipment were expertly decorated with paintings and prints; Miranda recognized a few Klimt pieces she was very fond of, as well as some Caravaggio and Renoir. Andrea (or Alexandra) had an eclectic but pleasing taste. The last piece of unadorned wall was really a metal sliding door, also with a glowing keypad attached to it.

                The transition from study to studio was almost eerie. While in the first there were pictures and Andrea and her daughter, haphazardly organized books, and comfy chairs, the latter had sleek surfaces, impeccable decorations and work, work, work. Miranda shook the familiar uneasiness that came with it. It reminded her of another time, another transformation that had begun right there in London, not too far from where she presently stood. It reminded her of the day Miranda Priestly had killed Miriam Princhek.

                The shift was also painfully obvious in the brunette beside her. In the study, she had been conversing with Andrea Sachs. Granted, not exactly the same Andrea Sachs from her time at _Runway,_ but she was still undoubtedly Andrea.

                Right then and there, Andrea seemed to diminish; she became almost nonexistent. The young woman that had walked into this well-lit work space seemed to stand taller, her face looked stoic, and her gaze burned like glowing embers. This was Alexandra Saxton. Right then and there, Andrea Sachs might as well be dead; she did not exist in this space.

                Miranda found she did not like that at all.

                “Here we are.” Andrea said. Even her voice had changed: her cadence was deliberate, her timbre calculated, her tone measured.

                “Impressive.” Miranda said, turning as she walked so she could take it all in. She looked up. “Glass? Don’t you worry about privacy, safety…?” she asked as she looked over the Thames.

                “One way mirrors” Andrea clarified, walking over to where Miranda was by the windows. “I see all, they see nothing. Bullet-proof, too.” She added wistfully. “Must have frustrated the paparazzi to no end: I caught a few helicopters flying uncomfortably close once or twice.”

                Miranda huffed, irritated. Paparazzi were like the scourge of the Earth.

                “Well. To business.” Andrea said, leading Miranda to where the mannequins were. For the first time since she entered, Miranda noticed the gowns on display, and could not suppress an eye-roll. If that was what Andrea had meant by ‘unfinished’, she could only wonder what on Earth the girl had yet to do with the gowns. They already looked exquisite.

                “I know you always go with black for formal events. I did want to break from tradition, but I thought you would not appreciate something too… unusual in such a tight schedule.” Andrea said, wheeling a few of the mannequins closer as Miranda inspected them. “I did take some liberties with tones, however.”

                Miranda had no words. She was too busy looking over every gown. They were all extraordinary, and she hated herself for managing to overuse such an adjective. Awe-inspiring, exquisite, sublime, impeccable, superb… All over-used, but Alexandra Saxton still managed to invoke them, time after time after time. It would be infuriating if it wasn’t all so beautiful.

                She had seen the sketches for all of these, but once again, seeing them in person was something else. She looked them over carefully: her decision had been made when she had seen the drawings, but now, like a spoiled child, she wanted them all.

                Would it be too much to have multiple wardrobe changes at Elizabeth’s function?

                Probably, she thought in defeat.

                “I don’t have words to describe this, Andrea.” She said truthfully. “It’s inconceivable that someone would manage to impress me so consistently, and yet… here we are. You’ve done it again.”

                Andrea nodded, acknowledging Miranda’s comment with a hint of pride.

                “I feel sorry for all the other gowns… You’ve gone through the trouble of making them all, yet only one will be worn.” Miranda continued. “It seems like a waste.” She confessed.

                “No.” Andrea interjected, her voice serene. “It’s never a waste to do something I love, Miranda.” She said. “Even if you don’t wear any of them, I am happy I made them, and I am happy you like them.”

                Miranda was somewhat taken aback at the sincerity in the brunette’s voice. Perhaps there was more of Andrea in Alexandra than she had previously thought.

                “Well” she said, lightly holding up one of the gowns. “You know what I like. My opinion has not changed since I saw your sketches.”

                “Very well.” Andrea replied. “If you’ll go behind the screen and undress, we’ll get right to it.” She said as she began removing the gown from the mannequin.

                Miranda simply nodded and made her way behind the folding screen. There were golden hooks on the wall, an elevated square platform, a full bodied three-way mirror, and a small rack to hold her clothes. She took off her jacket, and as she began to unbutton her blouse, she froze. Her fingers refused to work the buttons, and her body stiffened with a tension she had never known before, filling her with an unprecedented amount of dread.

                The reaction was of course ridiculous. She was Miranda Priestly. She had been dressed by the greatest of the greats. Alexandra Saxton was now one of them, so why couldn’t Miranda go through with a simple fitting? She had had thousands of them over her career. They were a simple fact of her industry, a part of her trade. Miranda took a deep breath. Maybe it was because she would be getting fitted by her former bumbling assistant. That’s all there was to it; it was bound to be… awkward?

                Inhaling and exhaling deeply once more, Miranda told herself that the one doing the fitting was Alexandra Saxton. No different than Vera Wang, Donna Karan, Diane Von Furstenberg, or any of the others.

                Except it was different.

                “Miranda?” a concerned voice came over the screen. “Everything alright?” Andrea asked, making everything worse by slipping a little bit of actual Andrea Sachs in her voice. Miranda would have much preferred an impatient timbre coming from Alexandra Saxton at the moment.

                “Yes. Quite fine. Give me one moment.” Miranda almost gasped. Breathing in as if she was about to take a dive to the depths of the dark ocean, Miranda quickly undressed, as if her progress were being timed. “All done.” She breathed out, immediately taking the gown Andrea’s disembodied arm offered her through the side of the screen. Putting on the gown in record time, she worked to regulate her breathing once more.

                “Good. May I?” Andrea asked.

                Miranda slowly drew back the screen, not even taking the time to examine herself on the mirror by her side. Despite her altered state, however, she was still able to hear the gasp that came from the brunette as she emerged. Miranda whipped her head to look at Andrea, and could barely suppress a gasp herself once she realized the young woman’s eyes were practically glassed over, her lips slightly parted.

                Andrea could not get over how beautiful Miranda looked. The gown wasn’t even done, but she mentally gave herself a deserved pat on the back: she had surpassed the greatest of the greats. She just knew it. She caught herself staring the moment Miranda’s cheeks turned pink.

                “Hm. Well. If you’ll step on here, please.” She said, motioning to the platform by Miranda’s side. The Editor silently obliged, noting how Andrea’s voice seemed to falter.

                As Miranda raised herself onto the platform, Andy could not help the comparison to a goddess on a pedestal. Looking up and meeting Miranda’s stormy grey orbs, she silently got to work, desperately trying to ignore the blood thumping in her ears.

                The next half hour was excruciating. Andrea carefully calculated what she needed to do and where she needed to touch. She and Miranda had exchanged handshakes and the like, but this was something completely new. If someone had told her while she had worked at _Runway_ that she would be hovering over the Devil in Prada’s chest as she took measurements and made adjustments for her bust, she would have had them committed on the spot. It didn’t help that Miranda seemed to flinch ever so slightly whenever her hands moved.

                For Miranda’s part, she felt dizzy like never before. She had half a mind to tell Andrea to stop so she could sit down. But she was Miranda Priestly, goddammit, and she would see this through. Andrea’s hands moved very deliberately, yet left a blazing trail in their wake. As she desperately tried to keep her breathing and body under control, she heard Nigel’s words in a loop in her head, as her cheeks and chest flushed with blood at the realization.

_There was something else going on._


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I'm baaack.... I am very sorry about how long it's taken me to return to this story. Life happens. I'm trying to maintain a so-far pristine GPA, look for internships, write for work... It piles up. But I a back! I would really like to try weekly updates again, but I think I'm going to have a hard time with those. So maybe (maybe) I'll try out bi-weekly updates.
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who have kept up with this story; thank you for your comments, your kudos, and thank you for not giving up on me haha. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis

                “I thought we talked about your choice of outfit. In fact, I was under the impression we had discussed it extensively for the past month.” Miranda said through gritted teeth, as her shark-like grin beamed at the flashes of the surrounding reporters.

                “Yes, we did. And we both agreed it would be an excellent choice. C’mon, it’s a Saxton!” said her carefree spawn as she waved to the crowd, beaming smile. Whether that smile was the product of her naturally cheerful self or of the embarrassment she could potentially cause her mother, Miranda wasn’t sure. But damn if she would let Cassidy get away with it.

                “We discussed _several_ options. This was not one of them.” She snipped.

                Cassidy rolled her eyes, exactly like Miranda.

                “We did, and you said the suit was, and I quote, ‘perfectly acceptable’. Are you backtracking, mom? Really?” Cassidy prodded, clearly enjoying herself immensely.

                Miranda fought to not purse her lips.

                “You know the suit is not the issue here. The issue is what’s _under_ the suit. Or rather, what _isn’t!_ ” she spat. How could her own children vex her so?

                Cassidy only laughed, and openly too, drinking in all the attention the cameras were giving to their mother-daughter tête-à-tête.

                “As you say, fashion is all about taking risks. I took a risk and I think it’s paying off; look, Kristen Stewart is looking this way, and she looks mighty interested.” The redhead joked.

                Miranda groaned inwardly.

                “Now is not the time for fraternizing, where is your sister?”

                “I dunno, last I saw of her she was chatting with Anna Wintour.”

                The fashion maven all but whirled around to find her eldest, only to be stopped by Cassidy.

                “Kidding! Jeez. You can find her yourself. I’ll go chat with Kristen.” Her youngest gave her a light-hearted tap on the shoulder – a move even the twins had trouble getting away with it. Still, Miranda let it go; she’d let Cassidy have a piece of her mind when they went home.

                “She’s getting more daring.” Said a voice nearby. Miranda turned to find Caroline, dressed to the nines in Thakoon. Her choice of eyeshadow was reminiscent of Emily’s early _Runway_ days. At least Caroline reserved those dramatic looks to the appropriate events.

                “I fear your sister is becoming too much of a free-spirit.” The silver-haired editor bemoaned as she and her daughter walked away from the throng.

                “No kidding; look at her free-boobing it.” Caroline observed.

                Miranda made a face at the statement.

                “I do hope she is using an appropriate amount of tape to keep that getup from… shifting.”

                Caroline almost snorted.

                “Yeah, right.” Her mother gave her a look. “Then again, you do live on hope” she added at Miranda’s glare.

                When her mother’s glare didn’t wane, Caroline gave her a sheepish smile, along with a poorly constructed excuse to go talk with someone other than the Devil in Prada. Miranda rolled her eyes, with the tiniest hint of amusement. Eight or eighteen, her daughters hadn’t changed much in many aspects.

                In others, however, she thought dryly, looking at Cassidy’s precarious attire from a distance, they had changed a little too much.

                She wafted over the room, her Saxton gown almost floating along with her. It was indeed an impeccable fit – as it should be, especially after that… odd fitting. She shook her head, a white forelock drooping over her forehead. It was best not to think about it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

                At present, Alexandra Saxton had yet to grace the room with her presence. Miranda feared she had left the younger woman quite abruptly after their fitting, and didn’t know how Andrea would react in the aftermath. Her fight or flight instincts kicked in, and for the first time she could remember, they were set to flight.

                Before the gala, Miranda had pondered as she dressed in the exquisite gown Andrea had made her. She had never had any problems with fittings: they were an integral part of her career, after all. It made absolutely no sense she should feel any different with Alexandra Saxton than she did with any other designer.

                It was then that she thought she arrived at the crux of the matter. Of course, Alexandra Saxton was not just any other designer. She was not even just Alexandra Saxton. No, Miranda and Alexandra had history, a history that came by the name of Andrea, her former scatter-brained assistant. Of course there was bound to be some awkwardness on both sides of that equation. It was obvious; it stemmed from the fact that her former assistant, who couldn’t even spell Gabbana when she worked for Miranda, was not in the position of actually dressing her mercurial ex-boss. As Cassidy would say, ‘well duh.’

                It was during those musings that Miranda felt the whole atmosphere of the room change, and she just _knew._ Alexandra Saxton had entered the building. She couldn’t help but contemplate how odd it was, still, to be on the receiving end of those entrances. If Miranda had to admit, only Alexandra could commandeer a room like the Devil in Prada.

                She turned to see Alexandra, not expecting to see what she saw.

                Andrea – or in the case, Alexandra Saxton – was wearing a black dress that clung to her every curve. It was definitely a more daring piece coming from Saxton; the slit off the side of the skirts was… adventurous to say the least. In fact, upon closer inspection, it seemed the entire dress was made of slits; they danced as Alexandra Saxton clicked her Louboutins with authority, threatening to show much more than intended, but never actually doing so.

                It wasn’t often that Miranda looked at a piece and wondered how on Earth the designer had accomplished to craft it, or how on Earth they made it work. But that was precisely what was happening right then and there, as she was mesmerized by the flowing fabric. Parts of the dress seemed to be made of a slightly different material; some were matte-black, while others were of a barely shimmery charcoal.

                Andrea walked confidently among the fashion industry giants present at Elizabeth’s gala. She was used to it now; besides, she was one of them. Claire followed her from a few steps behind, giving her regards to those Andrea didn’t wish to spend too much of her time greeting. She instantly felt a pair of electrifying blue eyes on her, and she couldn’t help the tug of her plum-tinted lips into a smile.

                She walked over to where the Queen of Fashion was standing, her champagne flute held delicately in her manicured fingers. Miranda seemed to be in a sort of trance, because the silver-haired woman seemingly forgot to greet her – she was too busy looking over her outfit.

                “Eyes up here, Miranda” she said playfully when she got to the woman, leaning in for the customary air kiss. She held back a chuckle when Miranda almost jumped to look at her eyes instead of the carefully-placed slits on the bodice of her dress. Not one to be outdone, however, Miranda quickly recovered, startling Andrea by delivering an actual kiss to the brunette’s cheek.

                “Really, Andrea, can you fault me?” she said, happily savouring her revenge as the younger woman let out a muffled squeak.

                Andrea also recovered remarkably quickly, letting out an airy laugh.

                “Of course I can, aren’t you used to seeing much more than this?” the brunette pointed out.

                Miranda simply raised an eyebrow.        

                “Why yes, but never from you.” She quipped. Miranda thought she had imagined it for a second, but no, that was indeed a blush creeping up the brunette’s slim neck, tinging her cheeks lightly. Priestly one, Sachs zero.

                Andrea cleared her throat, looking away from Miranda’s mesmerizing blue eyes.

                “It’s quite a party. But do correct me if I’m wrong, are your daughters here?” she asked.

                Miranda rolled her eyes.

                “Yes, I’m sure you have probably seen Cassidy. She’s wearing a midnight-blue Saxton suit.” She said, motioning to her risqué daughter, who was still talking to Kristen Stewart.

                Andrea’s eyes widened in surprise.

                “Oh, god, _that’s_ Cassidy?” she said, her shock evident.

                “I know, who would have thought I’d have a daughter… free-boobing it, I believe that was the expression.

                The brunette had chosen an unfortunate time to take a sip of her champagne; she almost spat it right out.

                “Oh. Oh! No, I wasn’t talking about that; I was talking about the hair. Her haircut. Not the, uh, free-boobing.” She clarified, her cheeks burning a deep red.

                Miranda’s cheeks were slightly pink; she tried to brush it off.

                “Oh, of course. Yes, the haircut. I tried to talk her out of it, but I would really be a hypocrite for not letting her go short.”

                Andrea laughed.

                “True. As for the… free-boobing, I’d think you of all people would be OK with it.” She joked, laughing at Miranda’s spectacular eye-roll.

                “I don’t have a problem with it per se; it’s simply because Cassidy is my daughter. And she is most likely not using any tape to keep it in place.” She muttered bitterly, hoping her youngest kept her arms plastered to her sides at all times.

                Andrea simply chuckled.

                “I mean, does anyone really use tape besides in movies? I’m not using any.” She said, seemingly more to herself than to Miranda.

                It was Miranda’s turn to blush and almost choke on her champagne. Her eyes automatically and rapidly made the path from Andrea’s face to her collarbone and below. Suddenly, her trajectory was interrupted by a gentle hand softly pushing her chin upwards.

                “Eyes up here, Miranda.” Andrea laughed heartily, to Miranda’s embarrassment.

                “My apologies” the Editor all but squeaked. “I merely wanted to ascertain…”     

                “If I was free-boobing it.” The brunette completed it, with absolutely zero qualms in teasing the Fashion Queen, who scoffed in response.

                Both women looked intently at each other before bursting into laughter, as the ridiculousness of the situation caught up to them.

                “I do believe” Miranda started again in between chuckles “I have never heard the term free-boobing so many times in the span of one minute.” She confessed.

                Andy wiped a tear from her eye, barely controlling what would be guffaws of laughter in any other situation.

                “I don’t think I could ever have imagined it hearing it so many times… in a conversation with Miranda Priestly.” She said, earning another laugh from the other woman.

                “As you can well see, I am full of surprises.”

                “You are indeed, Miranda. I would love to be surprised more often with you.” Andrea said, still smiling, but with seriousness in her eyes.

                Miranda arched an eyebrow.

                “Well, then I believe you will have to come to New York. I am a terribly scarce commodity in London, I’m afraid.”

                “I hope you won’t be so scarce by Wednesday… Allie has plans for us, in case you forgot.” The brunette remarked.

                “No, I have not forgotten. Worry not, I will be there… For a children’s musical.”

                Andrea’s shoulders shuddered with the force it took her to keep her chuckles at bay.

                “Be sure to act surprised. She has no idea you know, God only knows how, since she told you outright.”

                Miranda simply shrugged.

                “Children. I seem to remember something similar happened when Cassidy and Caroline were around her age… A mother’s day surprise, I believe.”

                Andrea looked on at Miranda, her interest piqued. The Editor rolled her eyes.

                “They accidentally told me they were planning to make me breakfast in bed… Which I suppose was a good thing in the end; I prevented them from burning the entire house down.”

                Andrea chuckled, shaking her head at her own memories of the twins. She wondered how many times the two had been close to completely destroying the townhouse, or at least part of it. Probably several.

                “Alas, they grow up. And now the biggest accident I must worry about is one of my daughters exposing herself in a room swarming with paparazzo.” Miranda lamented with a cringe. Andrea smiled.

                “Well, hopefully I won’t have to worry about that one for a good long while.” She quipped.

                “Ah, but it’ll happen much sooner than you think” Miranda retorted, a hint of sadness to her soft voice. “They grow up so fast. In the blink of an eye, you have to yell at them to turn their music down or stop texting at the table.”

                Andrea had a hard time imagining Miranda yelling at anyone, even her angsty teenage daughters. Though she had to admit, the image of Miranda commanding Caroline and Cassidy to turn down some blasting pop hit was quite an amusing one.

                The two kept talking for what seemed like hours – all up to Elizabeth’s farewell speech, as well as the unveiling of her last _Runway Britain_ edition, featuring a special collection by none other than Alexandra Saxton herself. The whole thing had been the conclusion to Miranda’s machinations, of course, marking the last time Alexandra Saxton would appear on a publication until _Runway_ ran a special feature for New York Fashion Week.

Andrea had briefly met the twins; they had approached their mother to excuse themselves to an after-party. Miranda had been talking, sitting, then drinking with Andrea all night; if people had noticed their lack of mingling with other guests, no one spoken about it.

There were only a significant people left by the time Miranda realized she was still sitting at the bar with Andrea Sachs. They had been there ever since Elizabeth finished her farewell address, symbolically handing the keys to her office at the _Runway Britain_ building to Emily Charlton, wishing her luck in taking the magazine forward. Andrea seemed to notice it as well.

“Well I’ll be damned. It’s past midnight” she said.                            

Miranda nodded, chuckling. It had been a long time since she stayed this long at any event. She would have stayed longer than her customary half hour; for Elizabeth she had promised to remain there for at least two. They were now going on four.

“Indeed; my car has probably returned to its true pumpkin form.” The Fashion Queen joked, earning a hearty laugh from Andrea in return. “Yes, laugh as you wish, you are not the only one who has a pumpkin for a ride.” She continued, since the brunette seemed to find it so funny.

“Poor Cinderella. At least your dress still looks bangin’.” Andrea slurred slightly, her beaming smile brighter than any of the camera flashes they had faced earlier that evening.

“Yes, and I suppose I have you to thank for that, seeing as you were the one who designed it.” Miranda pointed out.

“Yup. And damn; did I do a good job.” The brunette quipped happily.

Miranda rolled her eyes, but did not refute the statement. It was true. She turned to Andrea, her look a bit more serious.

“Yes, you did. I am really glad you resurfaced, Andrea.” She said truthfully. The brunette chuckled smugly.

“You’re only saying that because you get to wear my stuff.” She retorted knowingly, laughing as Miranda rolled her eyes yet again. It seemed she was doing quite a lot of that that evening.

“While that is certainly a perk, I must confess that is not all.” Miranda confessed. Maybe it was the champagne – or the Macallan they had ordered a little later into the evening — but she felt emboldened. “I was quite afraid you were gone forever after you disappeared.” She said sombrely.

Andrea’s eyes bugged out. “After Paris, you mean?” she said, her confusion only growing as Miranda shook her head in the negative.

“No. I had Emily add a subscription to _The Mirror._ I read a few of your articles, and then… you were gone without a trace. Out of the blue.” Miranda said.

The brunette looked at Miranda intently, a million questions very clearly swirling in her mind. Miranda could tell by the look in her mocha-brown eyes.

“I had no idea…” Andrea began. “That must have been when I left for London. I gave a week’s notice, and three days later, I was out.” She said.

“So drastic” Miranda pondered, a contemplative look in her eyes. She turned to look directly at Andrea, and was surprised to find the brunette with a pensive expression. The younger woman suddenly spoke.

“I’m not going to make a big deal out of this, Miranda… But why don’t you come home with me?”


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd update bi-weekly... But as a thank-you gift for all of you who stayed with this story even after that ridiculously long dry spell... Here you go! Thanks for keeping up with this story, for following and commenting. You guys are the best. I hope you all enjoy this chapter; it was a little hard to write, but I think we pulled through!
> 
> ~Naralanis

                For whatever absurd reason, Miranda felt like a schoolgirl skipping class when she dismissed her driver in favor of riding with Andrea to the Sachs residence. The two of them rode in complete but comfortable silence all the way to the townhouse, and Miranda couldn’t help but wonder where on Earth Andrea’s assistant was. She was sure she had seen Claire walk in with Andrea at the gala, but truth be told, she had completely forgotten of the blonde’s existence once they started talking.

                The car eventually came to a smooth stop in front of the immaculate garden; surprisingly, there were no paparazzi to be seen anywhere around the residence. Miranda could only breathe a sigh of relief. No one deserved to deal with those hounds so late at night, or rather, so early in the morning.

                “Home sweet home” muttered Andrea, as she deftly stepped out of the car. She quickly dismissed the driver, who was about to step out to open Miranda’s door. Instead, she went around the vehicle, opening it herself.

                “Madame Priestly.” She said with a faux-pompous air as she extended her hand for Miranda.

                Miranda chuckled as she took it, but made no reply. Andrea gently rapped on the back of the car, signaling for the driver to go as the two made their way to the door. The air was a chilly, just enough for their breaths to mist in the night.

                The house was eerily quiet as they clicked from the foyer up the stairs. Miranda’s hand remained in Andrea’s, as the brunette effortlessly guided the seasoned Editor through the darkened house. At first Miranda thought Andrea was guiding them to the study she had become familiar with, but was surprised when they took the opposite turn once they were up.

                Soft lights hummed on in a separate parlor as soon as they stepped in. With a flip of a switch, a roaring fire took life in the modern marble fireplace in the center of the room. The lights and the fire gave the room a cozy feel, and Miranda almost gasped upon seeing the far wall was made entirely of glass. They could clearly see the London lights, and the Thames further away.

                “I thought you’d be sick of the study by now.” Andrea said playfully, letting go of Miranda’s hand and going up to the bar set up in a corner of the room. She went to work on pouring them some whisky as Miranda contemplated the view outside.

                The silver-haired editor’s contemplation was broken by the soft notes of a familiar Edith Piaf song. She turned to find Andrea fiddling with a record player, and couldn’t suppress a laugh.

                “I would have thought you’d have some fancy Bluetooth speaker ready to go in a house like this.” She commented.

                Andrea smiled as she turned to face her former boss.

                “As a matter of fact, I do. I just like vinyl; I’ve had a collection my uncle gave me since I was a child.”

                Miranda quirked an eyebrow as Andrea handed her a glass.

                “So you’re not merely trying to appeal to my old age?”

                Andrea laughed, and Miranda couldn’t quite ignore the feeling the sound stirred in her chest.

                “You’re not old, Miranda. You don’t even look your age; you never have.” The brunette said confidently, prompting another trademark Priestly eye-roll.

                “Please, Andrea. You do realize the amount of make-up that goes into making my appearance what it is today.” She retorted with a grimace. Andrea simply shook her head.

                “And you do realize I have seen you without make-up? I still thought you were beautiful then.” Andrea said matter-of-factly.

                Miranda gasped.

                “What did you say?” she asked instinctively.

                The brunette looked confused.

                “I’ve seen you without –“

                “No, after that.”

                Andrea’s eyes widened considerably, as if she had just realized what she had said herself. Her mouth opened once again, almost stammering out some kind of excuse, until she stopped herself, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

                “I said that you were still beautiful then. And I meant it.” She said confidently.

                It was Miranda’s turn to be at a loss for words. She swirled the whisky in her glass, trying to buy sometime.

                “I mean, it’s not like you haven’t heard it before” Andrea suddenly pointed out, her voice raising an octave rather comically. “So you’re used to it.” She squeaked.

                Miranda couldn’t help but laugh at the sight – not to mention the sound. Andrea had seemed exactly like her old, bubbly and scatter-brained self just then. Which honestly just made the situation even weirder.

                “True” Miranda conceded. “Though they are not usually former assistants.” She pointed out.

                Andrea seemed more comfortable, walking over to the loveseat by the fire and gracefully sitting down. She motioned for Miranda to sit as well.

                “Point made” she replied. “However, I think you would have murdered me if I had said you were beautiful back when I was your assistant.”

                Miranda snorted as she sat by the brunette.

                “Now why on Earth would I do that? I can take a compliment.” She harrumphed, eliciting a peal of laughter from the younger woman beside her.

                “Yeah, right. Back then I thought if I said anything to you directly you’d end up throwing me out your office window.”

                “I cannot deny the thought did occur to me occasionally” Miranda joked, which earned her a playful smack on the shoulder. “It’s true. It was only early on in your tenure, however.” She completed, defending herself from another smack.

                “Early on? Are you saying that after a point, you didn’t want to throw me out of the window?”

                “Precisely.”

                “What did you want to do to me then?” Andrea asked innocently. The double-entendre had Miranda choking on her own saliva, her last hear-to-heart with Nigel replaying on her head in a continuous loop. “I bet you just wanted to push me in front of a car or something.”

                “Nothing so nefarious” Miranda rasped, glad it had gone over the brunette’s head. “You eventually developed into an excellent assistant; in fact, the best I ever had. It would be foolish to break in a new model after then.” She joked, trying desperately to forget what had just gone through her head.

                “Ah, I see how it is.” Andrea sad, her face pensive. Miranda was grateful for the momentary silence.

                “Excellent, you say?” Andrea asked, curious. The Editor smirked.

                “Yes, Andrea. Excellent. I have to admit, your departure… From Paris, I mean, left a significant… Void, one that that needed to be filled.” Miranda mused, realizing belatedly she had done so out loud.

                “Professionally, you mean?” Andrea asked, suddenly not facing Miranda anymore. Luckily, the light in the room was scarce and dim; it was dubious that fashion mogul would be able to see the blush slowly creeping up her cheeks.

                “Of course” Miranda said a little too quickly, promptly downing the rest of her whisky to relieve her suddenly parched throat. Andrea didn’t volunteer anything after that, and the room began to feel stifling. Maybe it was the heat of the fire, or the brunette’s proximity. Miranda was very deliberately keeping her eyes on the far wall.

                Andy breathed slowly and deliberately. She wasn’t exactly sure what had possessed her to invite Miranda to her home. But they were there now. She knew they had avoided discussing Paris specifically, but she figured that now there was no avoiding it. And she did want to know about Miranda’s sudden subscription to _The New York Mirror._ She recalled Emily mentioning it briefly, but to hear it from Miranda herself was a whole other story.

                “You said you were afraid I would be gone forever after I left _The Mirror_.” She whispered, looking intently into her half-filled glass. Feeling Miranda turn to face her, she looked up into those haunting blue eyes. “Why?”

                Miranda sighed. Why, indeed? The girl — though she was quite clearly not a _girl_ anymore, by any means – had absolutely no idea what she was asking. How could Miranda answer that question truthfully, when she barely knew the answer to it herself?

                Andrea kept on, either emboldened or frustrated by her silence. Miranda couldn’t quite tell which.

                “I understand you being afraid when I left you high and dry in Paris – that’s totally understandable. Your husband had just divorced you, you were clutching at _Runway_ with the last bits of our strength… And then you were suddenly out one assistant. I _get_ it; in that scenario even someone as insignificant as I was would…”

                “You were never insignificant.” Miranda interrupted automatically. Both women were clearly surprised by the interruption, but Andrea continued.

                “OK, fine. Not insignificant. Disposable, then.” She said bitterly, and Miranda couldn’t help but scoff in response.

                “Disposable? Andrea, are you by any chance newly-deaf? Did you not hear me clearly a moment ago when I said you were an excellent assistant? As in, the best assistant I ever had?” the Editor spat out.

                Andrea huffed in frustration.

                “Regardless, Miranda. I was always that and only that: an assistant. Replaceable; non-essential. I wasn’t that impor-“

                “You were important to me!” Miranda cut in sharply, her hand gripping her glass a little too tightly. “And to the magazine, of course” she added, noticing the brunette’s surprise at her outburst.

                “To the magazine. Of course.” Andrea said, her voice bitter.

                “Of course.” Miranda repeated with certainty, though she realized she wasn’t certain of anything anymore.

                The following silence was uncomfortable to the point of Andrea getting up and moving stealthily towards the bar. She refilled her glass quickly, downing it without a word, only to begin refilling it once again, taking a more moderate sip followed by a deep sigh.

                Miranda contemplated the brunette. She couldn’t help but notice how her dress moved with her body, how her neck craned while she stretched as she breathed in deeply. What on God’s green Earth was going on?

                “Funny, I never really felt that way” the younger woman finally said, looking anywhere but at Miranda. The Editor frowned.

                “What way?”

                Andrea laughed; a heartless, empty laugh. It broke Miranda’s heart.

                “Important. To you… to the magazine. I was always just the smart, fat girl. The size six. The bumbling fool who would never be good enough for fashion” she finished, her voice carrying a weight and a bitterness that belied years of keeping those feelings bottled up inside. Miranda could only widen her eyes in shock. The girl who had eventually become so finely attuned to her own feelings had not been able to see them for herself.

                “You were, Andrea. Terribly so.” Miranda said gently, standing to approach her former assistant.

                The heartless laugh was back.

                “Really? It sure didn’t feel like it.” Andrea said.

                That was partly a lie, in a way. Andy knew that eventually, she had become almost indispensable: she knew Miranda relied on her for all sorts of things most assistants would not be tasked with. But one thing was and always would remain true: despite her knowing how important she was, she never truly _felt_ it. Miranda had not ever allowed it. Not once.

                “I’m aware of how difficult being my assistant can be.” Miranda began, unsure how to continue, which was quite odd. She was not one to not know her mind, especially not so often. It vexed her immensely.

                “I don’t think you are, Miranda.” Andrea interrupted, her eyes shining with unbridled emotion. “I don’t think anyone who hasn’t been your assistant knows how difficult it is. You place insane demands on people. Does it really make a difference if you get your fucking coffee in fifteen minutes instead of ten? Does having 50 skirts in an hour truly matter, when 20 would do?” she spat.

                The Editor was taken aback at the brunette’s simmering rage, but not enough to forego a response.

                “Being an assistant is something a trained monkey can do” she said. “But _Runway_ requires more than that. If I need my coffee in ten minutes, it’s because I need to be doing things, _productive_ things in ten minutes. If I need 50 skirts, it’s because anything less than that _simply will not do._ ”

                Andrea scoffed, downing the rest of her whisky.

                “You were downright cruel, Miranda. Absolutely cruel. Holding our jobs over our heads. Your _ridiculous_ punishments – remember _Harry Potter?_ ” Andrea retorted.

                Miranda could not help blushing slightly in embarrassment. Truth be told – and that wasn’t news to anybody, least of all Andrea – her temper got the best of her at times.

                “How could I forget?” she said, trying to gauge Andrea’s feelings at the moment, carefully maneuvering the subject. “I had been furious. I wanted you to fail. I wanted to make you feel that failure when I fired you. And yet” she continued, seeing that the brunette was about to interject “You managed to do what very, very few people can do. You managed to surprise me.” She finished, noting how Andrea’s eyes were still conflicted, but her posture seemed to relax considerably.

                The younger woman seemed to be at a loss for words. Miranda took that opportunity.

                “So let me say this, Andrea, and you should know that I wholeheartedly mean it. I am dreadfully sorry. You slamming that manuscript on my desk was… enlightening and humbling.” She said. The brunette seemed to ponder her wonder carefully, until she finally flopped down on the loveseat once more, sighing in a wry laugh.

                “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to your apologies. They still sound… I don’t know. So weird. So impossible.” She pointed out.

                Miranda was a little hurt by the implication, but brushed it off. It was true; she seldom apologized for anything. However, in Andrea’s case, she figured she was already long overdue on one too many apologies.

                “Then you would do better to start. I’m sure I still have quite a few to go through.” She said dryly, almost laughing at the younger woman’s widened eyes. She sat down next to Andrea, turning to face the brunette, their knees grazing one another with the proximity.

                “I am sorry for calling you fat. You are not, nor were you ever, anything of the sort. I am sorry for breaking you down every single day in your tenure with me… With _Runway._ I am sorry for the ridiculous tasks. I am sorry for _Harry Potter._ I am sorry for my unbridled temper. I am sorry for forcing you to make that impossible choice back in Paris. Overall, I’m sorry for being the utter and complete bitch to you for the entirety of our acquaintance.” She said, strangely meaning every word. It was like each apology took a physical toll on her body, and with each one a hint of unshed tears shone in her blue eyes; she could feel their sting, but bravely kept them at bay.

                “And most importantly” Miranda continued, her voice cracking “I am incredibly sorry for sending you away.” She finished, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. A single tear broke free from her result, slowly making a path down her cheek.

                Miranda gasped in surprised as she felt the warmth of a hand reach up and touch her face, slowly brushing the tear away. Andrea’s hand flinched slightly as well, clearly also surprised by her own action. But perhaps the brunette was surprised by something else; perhaps she had felt the same sort of electric surge that coursed through Miranda’s body then they touched. The Editor would never know.

                “You didn’t send me away, exactly. Not technically. You may have pushed me, sure, but I was the one who chose to leave the way I did.” She said, the hints of a smile tugging at her lips. “I am sorry about that phone, by the way” she added, trying to lighten the mood.

                Miranda couldn’t help but respond with a dry chuckle, her hand reaching up to hold Andrea’s, which still rested upon her cheek.

                “I am not talking about the day you left Paris.” She said, her voice still wavering. “I’m talking about when I received my divorce papers… And there you were, as you always were. There, present.” She continued, despite the renewed moisture at the corners of her eyes. “Do you know why I told you to do your job that day?”

                The brunette simply shook her head, her eyes wide in expectation.

                “When you asked if there was anything you could do…” Miranda started, for the first time coming to the clear realization herself “it sounded like you were offering more than your job. Even if that was not the case… I could not allow it. I could not allow myself to accept it.” She confessed, immediately feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off her chest. It was remarkable, truly, how blind she had been, and for so long. Now her conversation with Nigel didn’t seem so ludicrous after all.

                “What if it _was_ the case?” Andrea suddenly whispered, her hand frozen to Miranda’s cheek still.

                The Editor gasped in shock and… expectation? Fear? For the first time in many, many Miranda could not tell. Andrea suddenly looked frightened, as if she too was unable to read Miranda’s expression.

                “Miranda…?”

                “What do you mean, _what if_?” Miranda said, her murmur barely audible.

                “What if… I _was_ offering more than my job?”

                The two women seemed to freeze in place. The sounds of their heartbeats and mingled breaths drowned the French lilt of Edith Piaf’s voice, and the crackling of the fire was lost in the deafening silence between them.

                “More than your job… in what way?” Miranda strangled out, unable to determine if the blush creeping up Andrea’s neck was a good sign. The brunette steeled herself with a deep breath.

                “I know you’re probably used to it. You’re Miranda fucking Priestly, after all. I bet it happens to most of your assistants at some point, and with me, it was no different.”

                Miranda almost stopped breathing. What on Earth did she mean?

                “I got to that point. When we go from hating you to… admiring you, in a way. In all ways. I tried God knows I tried to stop it. I didn’t want it. But before I knew it, I was in too deep, and I couldn’t stop it. No matter how hard I tried.” Andrea said, her own chocolate eyes brimming with tears.

                “Andrea…” Miranda whispered, mirroring the brunette’s early move and reaching out to stroke away the tears from the younger woman’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

                Andrea choked back a stifled sob, smirking dryly.

                “It’s part of the reason why I ran the way I did. You know why.” She said.

                “Tell me.” Miranda practically begged, holding her breath. Andy looked deeply into her eyes, her expression twisted in a mixture of fear and determination.

                “Before I knew it… I started falling for you, Miranda.”


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! TBH, not sure how satisfied I am with this chapter. Subject to change, I guess?
> 
> Thanks to all of you who read and review. You guys are awesome, and I love learning what you think!
> 
> Also, because I got a few complaints (and a few flames, which I suspect were from a single guest, were deleted)... this story IS A SLOW, SLOW BURN. Like, girl. People, it's chapter 41 and we're JUST NOW getting somewhere. I get it that you want things to move along, but please allow me to develop my story as I thought it out. If you're not into slow burns, this is not the story for you (though I am flattered you somehow stuck it out this far).
> 
> And to everyone else... Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis

Miranda began to wonder when her lungs would return to their proper functioning. As it was, she had stopped breathing for what seemed like hours – surely there was something wrong about that, no?

              Andrea’s teary confession made her heart stop beating completely, only to lurch back into action like a maddened engine. She could hear the blood pumping furiously through her temples, fast and unhinged like her swirling thoughts. Flashbacks and memories flooded her brain en masse; snapshots and sounds, smells, sensations, glances and so many questions. At some point she would have to confront the brunette about it.

              She realized her vision seemed to have blurred momentarily; or perhaps she had turned to look away from the younger woman. Whatever the reason was, Andrea’s face had disappeared from her view, and for a terrifying moment Miranda panicked, thinking she had retreated and left. But when she came to, she saw the brunette’s face resting upon her hands still, teary and afraid, very afraid. The Editor realized she should say something, the sooner the better.

              What an idiot she had been. For someone who depended so much on her visual acuity for her job, Miranda had been totally blind. Not only to Andrea, but to her own damn self as well. How was such a thing possible? As soon as the words fell from the brunette’s lips, Miranda’s first thought had been to label it ludicrous, ridiculous, impossible, preposterous.

              That lasted less than a second. Because then the flood of memories and feelings hit her like a storming wave, knocking her defenses down and drowning her in sensation she was not aware she was capable of feeling. Memories of Andrea resurfaced, those ridiculous shoes, her insistent, naïve bravado. That hideous cerulean sweater, the tears she had shed; courtesy of Miranda, the biting of lips in expectation and a little bit of fear. Mocha-brown eyes following her every move, a rigid jaw set in sheer determination to prove Miranda wrong.

              The slamming of a manuscript on her desk, accompanied with a smug smirk. _“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miranda?”_

              “A fool. I’ve been such a bloody fool.” Miranda thought aloud, unaware of the sudden return to a British lilt in her voice. Andrea’s eyes widened.

              “M-miranda?” she stammered. Miranda’s eyes snapped up to face the younger woman, and she was taken aback. For the first time since she’d met Andrea after her Alexandra Saxton debut, she saw nothing but Andrea. She was exactly like the Editor remembered her. Wide doe-eyes, innocent and hopeful, yet afraid. It was as if Alexandra Saxton had evaporated into thin air, and left only the aw-shucks, Midwestern-charm, bubbly Andy Sachs.

              She had never looked so beautiful.

              “A fool. Me.” Miranda said, louder this time, taking care to conceal her long-buried accent. It was the first time in decades it had resurfaced. “I can’t believe it. It was right in front of me… _You,_ you were right in front of me and I never… Never in my wildest dreams…” Miranda rambled. It was unlike her, to not know what to say and when to say it. It was infuriating. “You never said anything.” She murmured, looking at the brunette as if it were the first time she was truly seeing her.

              Andy laughed bitterly.

              “Are you nuts, Miranda? You were my boss. Hell, you were everybody’s boss. I never even knew when I went from hating you to l… admiring you. I would never say anything. I couldn’t.” Andrea said sadly.

              “I am the biggest damn fool to have ever lived” Miranda said, still in awe of how dense she had been. How could someone not see what was right in front of them… for years? “If I had known…”

              “If you had known, you would have fired me.” Andrea pointed out, a few fresh tears making their way down her cheeks. “You were my boss, and you were married. And I was just your lowly assistant. I bet all of your assistant have crushes on you, at some point.” She said.

              Miranda eyed the younger woman knowingly.

              “I was never a crush to you. Was I?” she asked, even though she knew full well what the truth was.

              Andrea loved her. Miranda knew now. How she didn’t before, she had no clue, but it was clear as crystal right then and there. The brunette harbored feelings too intense for a mere crush. This, what Andrea felt, was not simply admiration. It was love. With a start, Miranda realized she may very well love her too.

              “Please don’t make me say it, Miranda.” Andrea said, crying openly now. “Please don’t. I could not take another rejection. I’m fine the way I am now.” The younger woman said resolutely, but pleading.

              Miranda did something she never, ever did to anyone. Well, anyone besides her daughters, of course. But in that moment, she leaned over and pulled the brunette towards her in a tight embrace. Andrea let herself be pulled into Miranda’s arms with a squeak of surprise, but no resistance.

              “You poor, poor girl. I’ve already hurt you for a lifetime.” Miranda murmured against Andrea’s hair. It smelled softly of pomegranate and something flowery and fancy; it was absolutely Alexandra, but the woman in her arms was one hundred percent Andrea. “I’m twice your age, Andrea. Divorced, more than once. Workaholic. Mother of two teenaged terrors. The Devil in Prada.”

              Andrea attempted to free herself, but Miranda didn’t let her.

              “Don’t do that. Don’t try to dismiss my feelings. They are what they are, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

              “I was not dismissing them” Miranda said, meaning every word. “I’m just in awe that you are able to have them at all. For someone like me. You, someone so good and so pure. I could not allow myself to l…” she stooped, deathly afraid.

              Andrea managed to wiggle away some, just enough to face Miranda with a shocked expression.

              “You couldn’t allow yourself to what, Miranda?

              Miranda looked intently at the brunette. How to put into words a feeling she had just uncovered? Something that had been buried deep, deep down inside and only now resurfaced? Could she dare to give it a name?

              “I’ve come to realize” the Editor started cautiously, her grip on Andrea’s upper arms firm “that I have admired you for a long time, Andrea. Sending you away… It was due to an instinctual sense of self-preservation, true… But most importantly… I think it was due to fear.” She confessed.

              Andrea’s eyes were as wide as saucers. She gaped at the Editor, startled and confused.

              For years, she had had to come to terms with her own insignificance in Miranda’s life. For years, she had had to learn to squash her deepest emotions, encasing them deep within the shell that came to be Alexandra Saxton. What had started as a pseudonym, a simple alias, became a suit of armor. Andrea was vulnerable; Alexandra was an impenetrable fortress. Nothing could get to her, not even Miranda Priestly.

              “I was afraid of what my heart was telling me. My stubbornness should be of no surprise to anyone, least of all myself. Yet I find myself… shocked at just how deeply and fervently I am able to ignore my own feelings.” The silver-haired woman continued; freely shedding her tears.

              “Your feelings?” Andrea asked; her voice hopeful and frightened. Miranda nodded, laughing dryly.

              “My feelings for you, Andrea.” She said, and once she voiced that very thought, her liberation came in the form of a genuine chuckle. “My God, how blind I’ve been.”

              Andrea came back into Miranda’s arms in a flash. When Miranda had leaned in to hug her, it had been odd; she had not been expecting that demonstration from the older woman. It felt pleasant, yet foreign. Now, when it was painfully clear the woman was not indifferent – to her, to whatever _this_ was – she had not been able to suppress the urge.

              “All these years, I thought you were gone forever. I taught myself to hate you again. For leaving _Runway,_ for leaving me. And when I found out – when Emily told me it was you, the genius behind Alexandra… I have never dared to hope so much.” Miranda practically sobbed; the sound broke Andy’s heart. She had never seen Miranda in such a raw, vulnerable state; not even back in Paris.

              Andrea held Miranda for what seemed like hours. The woman took her time calming down, with Andy running her fingers calmly through silvery hair and rubbing soothing circles on her back.

              The entire situation was surreal.

              Andy couldn’t quite remember when her hate for Miranda turned into something more. It was a realization that she came to rather belatedly in her short tenure at _Runway._ It was something about the way Miranda looked at her; particularly after the _Harry Potter_ incident. Before she knew it, her life had been turned upside down by the notorious editor – again. And after Paris, when she was hit by the cold, hard reality of who and what Miranda really was…

              Running had been the only option.

              But now, after all these years, she had the Editor in her arms, crying openly, and… What was happening? What _would_ happen? Could they put all those years behind them? Could they go beyond the friendship they had been cautiously cultivating?

              “I can hear the wheels turning” Miranda suddenly commented. She had stopped crying; her voice was expectant, with a hint of humor.

              “Sorry” Andrea said instinctively.

              “No apology necessary” Miranda reassured her. Andrea felt the older woman’s lips curling into a smile against her neck. “I haven’t had the pleasure since you were my assistant.” She clarified.

              The brunette laughed.

              “Of hearing my wheels turn?” she asked, thoroughly amused despite their situation.

              “Yes” Miranda confirmed. “You are far too self-assured nowadays. Back then you took your time to think.” She said.

              Andy had no response. It was such a small thing. She usually felt uncomfortable whenever Miranda talked about her, as in her past self; the frumpy, bumbling second-assistant. Against all logical reasoning, Miranda spoke of that fool fondly, which was very odd to the brunette. The old Andrea only brought memories of a time when Miranda despised her.

              Or so she thought. Apparently.

              “God, do I need a drink.” She mused out loud, eliciting a laugh from the silver-haired woman in her arms.

              “Allow me to join you.”

              Andrea smiled, carefully disentangling herself from the Editor. She took their used glasses with her on the way to the bar, busying herself with refilling them.

              Miranda sat up straighter, smoothing out the creases on her dress. The situation was now bound to be… awkward. What would happen now? They had just aired out quite a few things between them, but there was still so much to talk about, so much to go through. There was so much they needed to understand. How would they ever go about doing that?

              “Now I think I can hear some wheels turning.” Andrea said playfully, approaching Miranda, the ice in the glasses clinking as she walked. She sat down with a smirk.

              “Apologies” the editor said, taking the glass offered. “It appears I am having some difficulty processing all of this.” She said truthfully. Andrea nodded in understanding.

              “I get it. Imagine how I must feel. My ex-boss – Miranda Priestly – just told me she was not indifferent to me after all. What a world we’re living in!”

              Miranda could already tell Andrea often used humor to escape potentially uncomfortable situations. It was mildly endearing.

              “Indifferent? Quite the contrary.” She looked intently at Andrea. “She was never truly indifferent.”

              Andy took a moment to get a generous, fortifying sip of liquid courage.

              “So… what happens now? We’ve had our big confession moment. Now what?” she asked. Miranda could see the mixture of hope and fear in those mocha-brown eyes.

              “I would tell you if I had any idea.” She said honestly. “I’m not quite sure I’ve ever been in this particular… situation. I am unsure how to proceed.”  

              Andrea seemed to ponder for a moment. They were both on the same boat – as they apparently had been for the past eight damn years. There was so much to figure out. But the brunette knew what she wanted. It had always seemed impossible, but now, maybe, just maybe, she could go through with it.

              After all, the impossible was supposedly her specialty.

              “When did you realize... That you uh… admired me?” she asked the Editor, looking at her intently.

              Miranda gestured vaguely in the air with her free hand.

              “I am not exactly aware of it myself… I think when you started taking your job more seriously. And then, of course, _Harry Potter._ ” Miranda said. It was odd, walking through her feelings. Especially with Andrea present.

              The brunette pondered for a few moments.

              “Funny. That’s sort of when I came to realize I didn’t really exactly hate you.” She confessed.

              The editor could not contain her shock.

              “After I made you go in a wild-goose chase for an impossible manuscript, with the threat of dismissal hanging over your head?” At Andrea’s confirmatory nod, she shook her head. “You’re odd.”

              The brunette laughed.

              “I know. But I was trying so hard to get it for you, because… in the end, I didn’t want to disappoint you. Again.” Her expression was solemn now. “I almost quit that day.” She said. Miranda huffed.

              “Silly girl. That would have disappointed me so much more.”

              “Well, how would I know? I thought you hated my guts.” Andrea protested.

              “I did.” Miranda said. Andrea moved to speak, but Miranda took her hand, stopping her. “I wanted you to fail. I was so angry about what you had done… About what you witnessed. You saw the start of my marriage crumbling; the edges of perfection chipping away. I wouldn’t have it.” She said. Andrea gave the older woman’s hand a consoling squeeze.

              “Of course, I couldn’t have imagined then that you would be present to witness everything falling apart in Paris.” She said. Fate worked in mysterious ways, she supposed.

              “Yeah. I couldn’t imagine either. I knew, I had known all along the perfection was a mask. And then when I saw you in Paris, after you got the divorce papers… It was like I saw the real you for the first time.” Andrea said breathlessly.

              “Scary.” Miranda mused.

              “No” Andrea said, cupping Miranda’s cheek. “Beautiful.” They looked at each other intently for what felt like hours. Edith Piaf had long ceased her melodious tones; the fire still crackled. Miranda could hear the faint chirping of birds, beckoning the arrival of dawn.

              “Andrea” she breathed, suddenly aware of how close their faces were. She held the hand that cupped her cheek. “I’m too old. Too damaged. Divorced. Irritable. Old.” She said.

              “I know.” Andrea said, impossibly closer.

              “I’m downright evil when I want to be. I have two daughters. You’re my former assistant. You disappeared from the face of the Earth.” Miranda continued as Andrea leaned in.

              “I know.” The brunette repeated, tilting her head. Miranda felt another hand lovingly drag upwards, reaching for the back of her neck, fingers brushing her white hair.

              “I’m a bitch. Evil. Demanding. Short temper.” Miranda gasped.

              “I know.”

              Miranda found herself almost underneath the brunette as they leaned into the loveseat together. The room had suddenly grown very hot, and she realized her fingers were running through the brunette’s long tresses. When had she let her hair down?

              “Andrea.”

              “Miranda. I’m going to kiss you now.”

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: HAHA I was so unhappy with this chapter I uploaded it on two fanfic platforms and then immediately deleted it. So if you follow this story and happened to get a notification, MY BAD. Sorry for the delay, I gotta stop promising regular updates, because I clearly can't keep up with them. Anyway, I changed this chapter (hopefully before anyone got a chance to read it) because I thought our leading ladies deviated a little too much from character, so I made some last-minute tweaks. STILL NOT HAPPY WITH IT, but this is what is staying up. Forgive me.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis

Romanticisms were never in Miranda’s good book. She was too experienced with the real world to be moved by sayings like “heart-stopping kisses” and “electric touches.” At her age, she knew there was no such thing in reality; the truth lay within the firing of synapses and hormones and whatever other physiological phenomena happened to take place in the brain. The heart had nothing to do with it; its job was to pump blood, not feel.

              Sweet Gabbana, was she wrong.

              Her heart certainly skipped a beat or several when Andrea’s lips finally touched hers. The girl had just leant in and done it, just as she said she would. Her announcement had not calmed Miranda in the least; quite the contrary: she began to shake, and that old heart of hers began to pump, and God, how it pumped. Miranda could feel the blood coursing through her every vein, and for a moment she was paralyzed, frozen in place as Andrea’s lips glided tentatively against her own.            

              Then, suddenly, Andrea pulled away. Miranda realized at once that the brunette took her inaction as rejection; she could already see her face hardening into the Alexandra Saxton mask she had become a little too familiar with recently.

              Acting purely on frenzied instinct, Miranda reached for Andrea, one hand snaking around the back of her neck, the other touching her face reverently.

              “Oh no, you don’t” the Editor said through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to pull away from me. Not again.”

              Miranda barely registered the widening of Andrea’s eyes before leaning in forcefully, reciprocating with an energy she did not know she possessed. Andrea had no time to say anything at all, but she did find the opportunity to wind her own arms around Miranda, holding on with an eagerness that belied her fear.

              It was a horrendous cliché, something Miranda absolutely detested, but she thoroughly understood the “heart-stopping” part of romance now. Was this romance, even? Would it have a chance to be, if it wasn’t already? If it ever did have a chance, how and when would she ruin it?

              “Stop thinking so much.” Andrea commanded, only momentarily pulling apart.

              “Will do.” Miranda managed to quip before Andrea kissed her back again. And again, and again, and again.

              So she did. She didn’t think about the fact her previous assistant seemed to be intent on thoroughly ravaging her. She didn’t think about the guttural moan Andrea produced as Miranda caressed her. She didn’t think about Alexandra Saxton. She didn’t think about how this was the best she had ever felt with another person.  She didn’t think about the lack of oxygen in her lungs.  She didn’t think about their slowly advancing state of undress. She didn’t think about the breathless way Andrea said her name when they touched. She didn’t think about the field day the press would have if anybody found out about this. She didn’t even think about Caroline and Cassidy, and what they would think.

              All of those and many more thoughts were banished from her mind. All that her brain had to do was fire those synapses away, or whatever they were, and she had her mind free to experience it all for the very first time.

              For the first time in too long, Miranda stopped thinking and just _felt._

              Andy was in a similar state. She told Miranda not to think, because she couldn’t bring herself to overanalyze this herself. If they stopped to think about anything – were they going too fast, should they go at all, could they give themselves a chance – she knew it would all come crashing down around them. There was no way Andrea would allow that. Not after all that time. Not after eight fucking years trying and failing to forget a ghost from her past.

              Feeling said ghost writhe beneath her gave her some illuminating insight to the tremendous power of denial, not to mention the extent of her own stubbornness. Since before she tossed her phone in that blasted fountain, she had denied her attraction to Miranda. She had denied her attraction and what it went on to become – so much more. And stubbornly, for eight long years, she had slowly come to convince herself that she didn’t _need_ Miranda Priestly.

              Boy, was she wrong. And because she was wrong, she could not bring herself to think about whether immediately jumping into bed – or couch – with the woman who had tormented her heart for so long was a mistake. It could not, it would not be a mistake. It felt too good to be anything but just right. Feelings as strong as these needed an outlet, and if her couch had to be the place for it, so be it.

              Miranda had never gotten so lost in sighs and caresses. It was a shock to her age and her experience, to feel this young, this energetic, and this hopeful. It felt wonderful. The way Andrea seemed to worship every inch of her body sent shivers down her spine; undeterred by the marks of her age, her biggest insecurity of all. Andrea clearly treated the opportunity to touch her this way as a great privilege, and Miranda found herself reciprocating with similar vigor and resolve. _She_ was privileged to touch this woman in this way. So many thoughts, flights of fancy, and dreams that had previously vexed her now fit together like puzzle pieces. She inwardly scoffed at the notion. Another cliché.

              They only fell asleep as the first rays of sunshine invaded the room. The light of day did not shine a light on the next level of their relationship – whatever relationship that was, or would become. That did not matter right then and there. What mattered was that they were both exhausted; physically and emotionally. Understandable, when over eight years of feelings spilled over at last.

              As Miranda snuggled – something that she never did – on Andrea’s chest as they finally rested, she could not bear to burst their blissful bubble. But she had to.

              “We’re must talk about this at some point.” She spoke into her lover’s neck, feeling a soft, exasperated groan coming from beneath.

              “At some point. This is not that point.” The brunette mumbled sleepily, holding Miranda closer.

              “I suppose that is acceptable.”

 

* * *

 

             

              Claire Murdoch was almost always awake by five in the morning. She didn’t need an alarm clock; her body was already so habituated with the early hour it would wake of its own accord. Even when she was not working, she would wake up at five, brush her teeth, and go back to bed if need be.

              As it happened, today she had work to do. More specifically, she had to convince her boss to hire a Fashion Director for the burgeoning Alexandra Saxton global brand. Elizabeth James had been kind enough to help them with a shortlist of very talented and hardworking individuals, but Andrea would have none of it.

              She wanted control.                               

              The blonde understood her friend’s predicament. It was a major step, one that required a lot of trust. After all, it was her name and brand. She understood that Andrea wanted to find someone up to the task.

              But Andrea was simply taking too damn long.

              Today, Claire would push her like she had never pushed her before. They needed a Fashion Director _yesterday,_ and as much as the brunette liked to think she was capable of achieving the impossible, there were limits to what she could actually do. Being a full-time designer, spearheading a global brand, and being a single mother could set some pretty harsh limits.

              The assistant slinked out of bed and into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She would probably take advantage of the early hour and get to Andrea while she was weak… Or rather, too sleepy to put up too much of a fight. Time was running short, and with so many grandiose plans for the future, she had to find a way to convince the brunette to slow the hell down.

              There was simply too much going on. The Alexandra Saxton reveal had taken a lot out of her friend and her daughter. Then that craziness that Miranda Priestly had orchestrated; appearing in basically every _Runway_ magazine under the sun in such a ridiculously short amount of time, having to deal with the jackass Arturo, prepping for a showstopper for Fashion Week in New York. Oh, and the little matter of building a global empire from the ground up, that little thing. Not to mention, of course, whatever the Hell Andrea was planning with Miranda.

              Miranda Priestly. Claire hated the woman. Only someone who knew Andy as she did would understand how much pain and suffering the Ice Queen had brought on the young brunette. For as long as she had known Andrea, the mere mention of Miranda Priestly had been enough to set her in a panic. It was weird; Andrea seemed to seek the other woman out and yet avoid her at all costs. No one other than Claire knew, but Andrea had started collecting all issues of _Runway…_ from twenty years before and onwards. The brunette kept tabs on the Editor like a madwoman, and yet lost it completely whenever she was mentioned. It wasn’t healthy.

              After that first showing, when Miranda had first wanted to meet Alexandra, Claire finally understood the full extent of the hold the Editor held over her then-girlfriend. Andrea had gone into full-panic mode, trembling and eventually vomiting. And yet, Andrea wanted to know everything Miranda had to say about her work. Did she like it? What did she say, exactly? How did her eyes look when she said what she said? And so many other bizarre questions that led Claire to a startling conclusion.

              Andrea was completely gone on Miranda Priestly.

              Of course, Andrea initially denied it. But it was too easy to see; Claire had come to know the brunette too well. That was when things began to disintegrate between the two.

              Andrea had become almost obsessed, both with avoiding and trying to understand the infamous editor. Claire was sure it would eventually drive her to the point of insanity; it was obvious Miranda didn’t give a flying fuck what the brunette thought of her. And even though Andrea seemed to agree with that particular point, she showed no signs of relenting.

              They eventually broke things off. Still, they had too much respect for one another, and just happened to work extremely well together. Somehow, they made their working relationship happen, slowly, surely, and stably. And then Andrea descended into madness, as Miranda Priestly kept trying to find who the famed Alexandra Saxton was. The realization that Miranda only cared due to Alexandra’s sudden success was too much for the brunette to bear.

              Claire supposed that having Miranda finally go after her thinking she was someone else would be enough to send Andrea right into lunacy. Which it did, somewhat. Then and there, Claire had tried to bring her friend back. She cut her platinum-blonde hair short, styled it very specifically, and put on some Prada pumps.

              The distraction worked wonderfully.

              Andrea had been all over her. Of course, it was short-lived. No matter how much passion they shared, they both knew it was not real. Claire wanted to liberate Andrea, and Andrea wanted to get lost in someone. Claire had been happy to oblige. Then Arturo Bosco and Allie came in, and their lives had been turned upside down. Nonetheless, they had been able to find a comfortable balance.

              Now, Andrea had been interacting with the silver-haired Editor more than Claire would have ever thought possible. It made her a little jealous, but mostly it worried her. Miranda Priestly was a trigger to too many things, and she didn’t want her former lover to suffer unnecessarily.

              She shrugged any thoughts of Miranda Priestly away. Now was not the time. It didn’t look like the two fashion giants would clash again, anyhow; Miranda had even interacted quite well with Allie. Claire hoped there would be no issues.

              The blonde left her room, walking towards Andrea’s door. She felt a little guilty for using Andrea’s sleepiness to her advantage, but the woman was as stubborn as one could be. She had to use some covert tactics.

              To her surprise, she saw no one in bed once she opened the door. The room was cold and empty, and the bed had clearly not been used that night. What on Earth? She checked the adjoining bathroom, just for the sake of it. Nobody.

              Claire moved stealthily out and towards the little girl’s room. Sometimes Andrea could be found there, though it was more common for Alice to move to her mother’s room than the other way around. Perhaps the young girl had woken in the night and intercepted her mother as she arrived from the gala.

              Careful not to wake the little girl, Claire opened the door slowly, just a crack. Though the room was dark, the green nigh-light illuminated the bed enough for the blonde to ascertain there was only one sleeping body there, Alice’s.

              Worried now, the assistant grabbed her phone to see if Andrea had left any messages the night before. Claire had left earlier with a potential interviewee, while Andrea and Miranda talked the night away at the bar.

              She startled. The bar.

              Had Andrea gotten wasted again?

              In a mix of anger and worry, Claire scanned her previous calls and messages. Andrea had left no messages alerting her of her whereabouts. With a faint hope that she was still in the house, the blonde ran downstairs to the study. She found it empty, the bar intact. Downstairs, the kitchen and dining room had no sign of Andrea’s presence anywhere. She dialed Andrea’s phone. It went straight to voicemail.

              In a last-ditch effort, Claire went upstairs, to Alexandra Saxton’s studio. She punched in the wrong entry code twice in her hurry to enter, but finally made it in. The studio and work area were impeccably organized; there was no sign Alexandra had been working there the past evening.

              “Andrea, for fuck’s sake, where are you?! Call me!” she hissed into her phone as her call went to voicemail once more.

              On her way back downstairs, Claire stopped cold. The sitting room! Andrea didn’t frequent that part of the house very often. However, there was another bar there. It wouldn’t hurt checking. In the blink of an eye, the blonde ran barefoot, in just boxers and a tank-top, to the seldom-used room. She dared not hope Andrea would be there.

              Once there, Claire opened the door abruptly, accidentally slamming it against the wall with her force. She saw Andrea, snuggled up on the loveseat, with a fluffy throw over her body.

              She wasn’t alone.

              “Andy, what the fuck?!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

              Miranda was aware of another body next to her, breathing deeply. Her left side – the one in contact with said body – was warm and cozy. Her right, however, was freezing.

              She fumbled with the corner of a fluffy blanket, dismayed when a heavy weight prevented her from pulling more of it to herself. Apparently, her sleeping mate was a blanket-hog.

              “Andy, what the fuck!?”

              Miranda’s eyes immediately opened wide at the stringent, awfully familiar voice. Her mind ran through the events of the previous night in a flash, unencumbered by the faint headache she felt.

              Oh no.

              As she was prone to do, Miranda processed the information quickly. Andrea was sleeping next to her; they were both in an advanced state of undress. Claire Murdoch was screeching at the door.

              “For God’s sake, woman, by all means, keep on screaming. Perhaps you’d like to wake the Queen as well.” Miranda grumbled, her head heavy.

              Claire’s mouth opened and closed a few times, her astonishment evident.

              “You! How dare…”

              Uncharacteristically, Miranda shushed the woman with an angry hiss. The Editor had never resorted to more than a glare to silence someone, but clearly desperate times called for desperate measures.

              “What you have here are two consenting adults who can do whatever they please. Now leave.” Miranda said with a sniff. Of all the encounters she could possibly have in a “morning after”, Claire Murdoch was among those at the very bottom of the list.

              Before Claire could think of a response beyond an undignified huff, Andrea stirred next to Miranda.

              “Whatsa goin’on?” she slurred.

              “Your lovely assistant was simply wishing us a good morning.” Miranda drawled sarcastically.

              The Editor’s soft tone was enough for Andrea to pull herself up so fast Miranda thought the woman would give herself some whiplash.

              “Oh my fuck, Claire. This is not…” she started.

              “Don’t you even try that with me, Andrea! Seriously, what the fuck! Explain yourself!” the blonde hissed angrily.

              Andrea did not get a chance to respond, as Miranda stepped in. Her patience with the assistant was wearing dangerously thin.

              “Andrea owes no explanation, to you or anybody else. Make yourself scarce.” She said bitingly.

              Claire bristled, her face red with anger.

              “You’re going to let her talk to me like that? Andy!” she screeched at Andrea, who held her head in her hands with a grunt.

              “Will you tone it down, please? For fuck’s sake, I’m not even remotely ready for this.” She groaned. “It’s too bright, it’s too loud, and I really, really need some coffee. Could you please leave us a moment?” she asked.

              Claire glared at Miranda. Miranda glared right back, unbothered and undeterred.

              “Please?” Andy tried again, her look pleading.

              Her assistant glared some more. Claire’s mouth opened as if to say something, but she seemed to think better of it. With a last death stare in Miranda’s direction, she turned and left, slamming the door on her way out.

              Andrea let out a long-suffering sigh.

              “Jesus Christ.” She said, flopping back onto the loveseat. “I need a drink.”

              Miranda quirked an eyebrow.

              “Andrea, it’s not even six in the morning.”

              Andrea whirled to look at the clock that hung on the far wall.

              “Ugh… So it is. What the hell, I’m going back to sleep.” She retorted, burying her face under one of the cushions.

              “Andrea…” Miranda called softly.

              “What?” came the mumbled reply from under the cushion.

              “We need to talk.” The editor said.  She felt Andrea deflate under the blanket.

              “We do. But does it have to be now?” she said. It was endearing; Andrea sounded exactly like she did when she worked at _Runway._ Miranda shook the thought away. They needed to discuss a few… more than a few things. She kept her steady gaze on the younger woman, who relented with a sigh.

              “Alright, alright. But like hell I’m doing this without a drink first.” She quipped, leaving the confines of their shared blanket. Miranda stared at her former assistant, strutting mostly naked about the room towards the bar. The distraction led her to take a while processing.

              “Do you make it a habit of drinking this early in the morning?” she probed with a quirked eyebrow, as Andrea filled her abandoned glass from the previous night with a healthy dose of bourbon. Andrea simply glared.

              “Don’t they call it liquid courage? That’s certainly what I need right about now. To have this _talk_ you’re so keen on having.” She snipped, subsequently downing her drink in one large gulp.

              For a few moments, the two women simply glared at each other. Andrea was the one to finally relent with another long-suffering sigh.

              “This was a mistake, wasn’t it?” she said, defeated. Miranda couldn’t answer immediately; she merely looked down at her hands. Was Andrea on the same train of thought as she was?

              “I’m afraid so.” Miranda said, equally broken. They would have to work so many things out. They had jumped into things too fast; no matter how wonderful the past events had been, they would have to take a step back now, in the light of day, and carefully think about how to proceed.

              “Dammit. I should have known. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?”

              Immediately Miranda sensed there might have been some misunderstanding. She raised her head to look directly into Andrea’s eyes, and was surprised to see them full of tears.

              “Let me make this clear. I do not regret it. At all.” She clarified strongly. Andrea’s features showed confusion, then frustration. The Alexandra Saxton mask was beginning to slip into place, and Miranda did not want that to happen; not now.

              “Then what the hell do you mean by ‘this was a mistake’, Miranda?” she hissed.

              Miranda sighed, running a hand through her mussed hair.

              “I do no regret… Sharing last night’s experiences with you. I simply mean we should have taken a step back to consider… Certain predicaments.” She said, frustrated by the uneasy timbre of her voice.

              Andre barked out a relived laugh.

              “Oh, God. You’re not just kicking me to the curb, then?” she asked. The question was worded playfully, but Miranda could very well see the fearful anticipation in those brown eyes.

              “Andrea, how would I be able to kick you to the curb at your own home? Besides, I believe your assistant will do that as soon as you step out of this room – I may even be forced to join you.” She said, hoping to relieve some tension.

              It worked, Andrea laughed again.

              “So... the ‘mistake’ part was the one where we immediately jumped into bed, right?” she asked with an eyeroll of her own.

              “Technically, it is a couch.” Miranda pointed out.

              Andrea made it a point to slowly walk towards said couch, only to give Miranda another one of those playful smacks on the shoulder, then promptly flopped down, ignoring Miranda’s protestations.

              They sat in silence for a long moment, contemplating where to go. It was nice to forget about responsibilities and potential problems for one night; but now, especially after their literal rude awakening, they could not be ignored. Miranda tentatively grasped one of Andrea’s hands, grateful for the light pressure she fell as a response.

              “It won’t be easy, navigating this” she gestured vaguely at the air between them.

              “We’ve never really done ‘easy’, though, have we?” Andrea said.

              Miranda happened to agree, at least on her part. She had no way of truly knowing (though she had an inkling), Andrea, like her, made the personal a lot more complicated than it probably needed to be. And God only knew how odd and difficult their working relationship had been, that could easily translate into their personal one.

              “No” she admitted “we certainly haven’t. I’m afraid this will take a toll on both of us, in some way or another.” She said, and Andy could see the fear in her eyes. They were clearly on the same boat as far as fear and anticipation were concerned; they seemed to have equal amounts of both.

              “It will. Hopefully nothing that we can’t handle, though” the brunette said hopefully. Miranda smirked.

              “Hopefully. I certainly hope we handle whatever comes our way better than we handled ourselves last night.”

              Andrea laughed.

              “I think we handled ourselves just fine.” She joked.

              Miranda’s face turned serious.

              “You know that can’t happen again. At least not for a while.” She said, cursing the way Andrea’s crestfallen expression made her reconsider everything and just throw herself into the woman’s arms.

              “I understand. We need to take a step back.” Andrea agreed reluctantly. Miranda softly held her chin, turning Andrea’s face towards her.

              “I need you to understand this, Andrea. I would like to… expand our relationship. But we cannot do this again, not until we figure several things out. But have no doubt in your mind, I have no regrets about any of this” she once again gestured between them. Andrea held onto the hand under her chin.

              “I understand. But I hope you know that I won’t be able to pull away from all of this, Miranda. Not completely.” She confessed.

              “I should hope not. I happen to… enjoy your company immensely, and I will certainly keep pursuing it whenever I am able. I would greatly enjoy getting to know you, Andrea.”

              Andrea laughed.

              “You already know a lot about me. And I about you.” She pointed out. Miranda shook her head.

              “That may very well be, but we both know there is a lot more. I would like to get to know you properly, as much as possible, before we consider our circumstances and before we move on to… other things.”

              Andrea blinked.

              “So… you want to _date_ me?”

              Miranda huffed, annoyed.

              “Why must you give it such an insipid name? No. All I mean is I would like to get to know you in a more private fashion, by spending time with you, perhaps at the occasional dinner whenever we happen to be in the same continent.”

              Andrea shot her former boss a look.

              “Getting to know each other in a more private fashion? Over dinner? That’s dating; sorry, there’s no other name for it.”

              Miranda rolled her eyes, begrudgingly conceding defeat with an exasperated huff. She and Andrea leaned back into the couch, letting the conversation hang in the air until the brunette broke the silence.

              “Holy shit, I’m dating Miranda Priestly!”

             

 


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't really meant to be a chapter at all. I was working on the real chapter 43, but it was supposed to have some angst and confrontation, and honestly that was the last kind of thing I wanted to write at the moment... Things have been kind of down IRL, so I pulled out some gratuitous twin-time as a little interlude for our major developments. Sorry! Promise the juicier stuff will come. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis

              Miranda had not been looking forward to coming out and facing the wrath of Claire Murdoch after her night with Andrea. The blonde exasperated her to no end, and she truly did not want to be subjected to her pitiful glares any longer. She might forget to be nice.

              Thankfully, Claire was nowhere to be found when they finally emerged from their sitting room. Miranda quietly made her exit, politely declining Andrea’s offer of coffee, but gracefully accepting the car and driver provided by the brunette. They did not speak much after their morning talk, but there hung a mutual understanding between them. There would be a time for a lengthy discussion – later.

              As the car pulled away into the street, Miranda felt her phone vibrate with a new message. She reached for it, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she read.

_Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Tomorrow. Don’t forget._

              Miranda rolled her eyes good-naturedly. As if.

_I wouldn’t miss it for the world._

              As she was escorted to her hotel suite by Andrea’s driver – who had simply refused to be dismissed until she had been “safely delivered”, Miranda fervently hoped, somewhat fruitlessly, that Caroline and Cassidy were still asleep. The likelihood of Cassidy still being in bed was far, far greater than Caroline’s; Caroline, like her mother, was an early riser. Which was just as well: Cassidy was the nosy one. Caroline would probably not ask any questions.

              However, as soon as Miranda walked in, she realized she would have no such luck. The twins were both awake and alert, Caroline in her running gear and Cassidy in a faded, oversized shirt that featured one of those awfully noisy bands she listened to on an exasperatingly regular basis. They were lounging in the lavish suite’s breakfast nook – Miranda was in their direct line of sight.

              “Look what the cat dragged in.” Cassidy said over a bowl of a some horrifyingly chocolatey, sugary cereal; she earned a trademarked Priestly glare in response.

              “My apologies, girls. I had some business that kept me away for longer than I intended. Hopefully you aren’t too shaken by unexpected absence.” She finished sarcastically, directing her sight at Cassidy. Caroline made no pronouncement; she simply quirked an expertly manicured eyebrow as she sipped one of her usual green smoothies.

              As much as Miranda loathed to admit it, the girls were more than accustomed to being on their own. Granted, there had been nannies and staff to watch over them when they were young, but as soon as they turned about fifteen, they had told Miranda not to bother herself; they understood.

              “Was that business with Alexandra Saxton?” Caroline asked after another sip of that green concoction, her interest piqued. Miranda could not help but eye the smoothie with a little disgust; why couldn’t her daughters eat something normal? Like eggs?

              “If you must know, yes. We are planning something for New York.” Miranda commented. Caroline always wanted to know more about her work and what it entailed; and those were questions Miranda was more than happy to answer. If she had to admit it, she would almost be comfortable letting Caroline run the proverbial show if she ever needed some time off. If it were legal, she probably would already have.

              “New York? Already? A bit soon, no?” Caroline countered curiously.

              Maybe Caroline knew too much.

              “Yes” Miranda admitted. “But we have some special plans in mind; I would rather get going sooner, rather than later. We are both very busy people.”

              Caroline nodded in confirmation, seemingly satisfied with her mother’s answers. Cassidy rolled her eyes as she munched her cereal.

              “Isn’t it weird working with Andrea though? Like, she used to work for you. You used to boss her around, and now, isn’t she kind of the boss?” She mused, talking and chewing at the same time. Miranda and Caroline both pursed their lips in disapproval.

              “She’s not the boss. Mom is the boss. And for God’s sake, stop chewing with your mouth open, you’re like a caveman.” Caroline snipped, her face contorted in disgust as Cassidy responded by chewing even more inelegantly.

              “Cassidy, stop that revolting thing right this instant. I didn’t raise you to masticate like a bull on a field.” Miranda quipped. “You do have a good point. There are some things we must both learn again since her position is so different now.” She conceded.

              “I would have thought it would be extra weird working with her. Especially after her reveal stunt. She totally owned you!” Cassidy retorted with a laugh. Miranda only rolled her eyes.

              “She didn’t _own_ anybody. She resorted to underhanded tactics and came out on top.” Caroline grumbled.

              “So did mom, and look where that got her… One step behind Anna Wintour! It’s too funny!”

              “It’s so not fu…”

              “Girls!” Miranda huffed before things got out of hand. It was like they were six again, fighting for a teddy bear. Cassidy knew how to get on Caroline’s nerves; she was the only one who could somehow get under her sister’s skin. “We _both_ resorted to underhanded tactics. It’s how much of this industry works, unfortunately. I underestimated her, but in the end, it seems to have worked out for the best.” She said, sending a glare in their direction when it looked like they were about to start up again. The discussion was over.

              Cassidy shrugged her shoulders.

              “Well, I guess y’all deserve to finally go make some magazines together. You spent years fixated on the woman, like geez.” She commented off-handedly, shoving more cereal into her mouth. Miranda’s stomach churned when she saw the milk was now chocolate colored, with… marshmallows bobbing around in it.

              “ _Everyone_ was fixated on Alexandra Saxton, you idiot. She’s like the eighth wonder of fashion.” Caroline snipped.

              “Caroline, watch your tone.” Miranda said half-heartedly. She chose to ignore the attempted eyeroll from her youngest; she was not in the mood for that today. Caroline had always been especially difficult to discipline, mostly because she mirrored Miranda’s attitude all the time, even if subconsciously. What was Miranda supposed to say, ‘do as I say, not as I do?’

              Cassidy smiled smugly, Caroline scoffed at her sister. While they were still close in many aspects – Miranda suspected they could not help it, given their close connection as twins – her girls had drifted apart from each other in several ways as adolescence came on. The bickering had certainly increased a tad too much for her liking; she supposed it came from their vastly different interests and attitudes.

              “Fine. I’m going for a run.” Caroline announced, finishing the last of her green smoothie and leaving.

              “You mean you’re gonna walk on a treadmill staring at a wall.” Cassidy called out after her.

              “One of us has to be the pretty sister.” Caroline retorted right back, just in time for the elevator to ding, saving her from the reprimand Miranda had on the tip of her tongue.

              As if she had read her mind, Cassidy reassured her mother.

              “Don’t bother, mom. We fight. We gotta get it out of our system before we’re off doing our own things. It’s a sister thing.” She said matter-of-factly.

              Miranda was surprised by Cassidy’s relaxed attitude, but that again was not a new thing. Cassidy was the more impulsive and passionate or the two when it came to everything else, but with her sister there was very little that could rattle her. It was the one and only instance in which the twins were the complete opposite of what they usually were in the outside world. That relieved Miranda somewhat; she was glad Caroline’s cutting words didn’t get to her sister. Like her mother, Caroline could be especially vicious.

              There were times when she wondered if Cassidy only lived with her for Caroline’s sake. Cassidy was nothing like her mother, save in appearance. She enjoyed the great outdoors, junk food and the simpler things in life (as much as she had access to such ‘simple’ things, considering her upbringing), and while she dressed fashionably, Miranda knew it was only not to embarrass her in public. In private, Cassidy was not afraid to wear sweatpants and old tees. Sometimes Miranda wondered if it ever got exhausting, living with two other people who were so alike to one another, but so different from herself.

              “Mom? You OK there?”

              Miranda realized she had zoned out for a few seconds, which was completely unlike her. It probably had worried Cassidy, judging by her concerned look.

              “Yes, Bobbsey. I believe I’m simply tired; I did not get much sleep.” Miranda said. It was not technically a lie.

              Caroline seemed to find that answer acceptable.

              “You want some breakfast? You look like you could use some.”

              “Yes, dear, that would be lovely. Thank you.” Miranda said thankfully. She was a bit hungry.

              However, her appetite surely underwent a drastic change once a bowl filled to the brim with the sugar-filled cereal concoction (could it even be legally called cereal??) clinked onto the table right in front of her. Cassidy winked as she slid a spoon across the table to her mother.

              “Now, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.” She said playfully before strutting out to her room.

              Miranda rolled her eyes. Maybe it was her exhaustion, maybe it was her actual hunger, but in the end she ended up trying the damn thing.

              As she finished it with delight and horror, she thought that perhaps she and Cassidy were not as different as she had thought.


	44. Chapter 44

 

 

Andrea was having a hard time making her overly-excited spawn sit still long enough to put on pants. While Allie could be a rather precociously developed child, there were times in which she reminded her mother – quite strongly – that she was, indeed, just a child. Presently, she was jumping on her bed, wearing a polka-dotted blouse and purple undies.

“Allie.” Andrea pleaded, too tired to be stern. “Please come down. Put on your pants. We’re going to be late, do you want to be late and keep Miranda waiting?”

Mentioning the Ice Queen seemed to do the trick. Allie took one last jump, crossing her legs in mid-air and landing with an amused _thud._ Andrea thanked the heavens and got to work.

“Look mum, my pants are Alexandra Saxton!” she yelped playfully, once her tailored black trousers were on and secured.

Andrea couldn’t suppress a smile. It was an in-house joke, that Allie was the only child in the world privileged enough to wear Alexandra Saxton. Of course, most of her wardrobe had been designed and made by her mother, so it was only logical. Still, Allie seemed to get a kick out of it.

“Yes, they are. What do you think?” she said, hands on her hips as her daughter twirled atop her mattress. Allie walked the length of the bed much like a model would at a fashion show.

“I love them!”

Satisfied with the pronouncement, Andrea smoothed the frayed hairs that had escaped Allie’s ponytail in her excitement.

Tonight, she and Allie would be meeting Miranda to see _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._ The young girl could not stop chattering about the outing the entire day. She talked about her outfit (and the several discarded options that had been unceremoniously tossed in a huge pile on the floor of her closet), about the movie and book the musical was based on, about chocolate, and about how Miranda would love the entire thing. Andrea was reserving judgement on the last one, as she very much doubted a children’s musical would be Miranda’s cup of tea.

              She had not talked to Miranda since the previous morning, at least not extensively. They had exchanged a few texts, mostly to coordinate the outing, but they had not had the opportunity to discuss what had transpired between them. There was an unspoken agreement that such a discussion should happen face-to-face, which presented a bit of a problem, as Miranda was due back in New York. She had a flight out early the following morning.

              Miranda would be back in her domain while Andrea would be stuck in London with Claire, who had been very vocal in her disapproval of what had happened. Not that Andy had had the time to discuss anything with Claire, either. Right after Miranda left, Claire had claimed one of her days off and left ‘to get some air’. She had since returned, but had yet to speak to Andrea directly. Instead, the blonde sulked in her room.              

              Andrea had an inkling that her friend and assistant was simply biding her time. She knew Allie and Andrea had plans – plans that included Miranda – and likely just didn’t wish to intrude or put a damper in their evening. In a way, Andy supposed that made things worse; she knew that as soon as she was able, Claire would pounce with all of her might.

              Shaking the thoughts of the impending confrontation away, she worked on making Allie calm down somewhat before it was time to go. The last thing she wanted was a hyperactive child in a theatre. Especially when said child was accompanied by two of the biggest fashion icons of the century.

              She had very little time, however, as a ding coming from the door heralded the arrival of her guest. The paparazzi had moved on to greener pastures after some teen heartthrob crashed his brand new Lamborghini into a memorial statue, which gave the Saxton residence a much-needed respite. As such, Andrea had not needed to arrange a decoy to distract them, so Miranda had been able to walk up to her doorstep and ring the doorbell. Any hope the brunette had of calming her spawn was thrown out the window.

              “Miranda’s here! Miranda’s here!” Allie yelped, taking off to the entrance hall in an excited sprint. Andrea simply sighed in defeat.

              She couldn’t even get in her customary admonishment to opening the door to strangers; Allie had already yanked the door opening with force that belied her young age. Luckily, Andrea needn’t have worried; besides the white-haired fashion mogul was Bartley.

              “Hi Miranda! Hi Bartley!” Allie exclaimed happily.

              Bartley tipped his hat in the little girl’s direction, nodding discreetly to Andy as he made his way out. Miranda smiled as Allie beckoned for her to come in.

              “Good evening, Alice. Andrea.” She said.

              Andrea could not quite register what Miranda was saying. Truthfully, she could barely register her excited child’s yelps as she once again started her hyperactive jumping up and down in front of the fashion mogul. The brunette was suddenly afflicted by a severe case of tunnel vision; all she could see was plunging neckline of the Editor’s Tyrian purple Vera Wang dress.

              “Andrea.” The soft voice repeated itself, clearly tinged with amusement at Andrea’s loss for words.

              “Mum! Don’t be rude. Let M’randa in!” Alice commanded, brushing her mother aside and taking Miranda by the hand, effectively dragging the most feared woman in the fashion industry inside.

              Miranda was holding in a guffaw of laughter at Andrea’s dumbstruck expression, but more so, at her daughter’s take-charge attitude. She couldn’t remember the last time a child had dragged her anywhere; it might have been when she was a child herself. The twins certainly had never done.

              Andrea dumbly followed her daughter and guest into the foyer and through the kitchen, taking the time to shake her wayward thoughts away. Once she finally caught up with the other two, Miranda was sending a knowing look in her direction.

              “Really, Andrea, don’t I at least deserve a greeting?” the Editor said silkily, moving to buss the brunette’s cheek.       

              “Apologies, Miranda. My mind was elsewhere” Andrea responded cheekily, in her best Alexandra Saxton voice.

              Miranda arched an eyebrow at Andrea’s tone, but any overture on her part was interrupted by Alice.

              “Mom, you have to be nice to guests. M’randa is a guest. I’m going to be nice and show her my drawings, can I go get them?”

              Andrea didn’t have the chance to respond, as Miranda lowered herself on her heels to face the young child eye-to-eye.

              “Of course, darling; I’d love to see them. Why don’t you go fetch the best of them while your mother and I have a little _talk.”_

              Andrea thanked the stars Allie was a young child who would not have thought twice about Miranda’s sudden change in tone at that last word. How the woman managed to get her voice to suddenly go from a normal to such a sexy register was completely beyond her.

              Miranda dragged her gaze slowly across Andy’s body, top to bottom. It was oddly exciting, not to mention liberating, this effect she had on the younger woman. She noticed the faint rouging of the brunette’s cheeks, the slight parting of her red lips. With a start, the Editor realized she had seen such reactions before their night together. Much longer before, in fact – over eight years.

              “Hello, Andrea.” She said, rejoicing in how her tone so clearly affected Andrea.

              “Jesus, Miranda” Andrea said a little breathlessly “Can you tone it down a little? We’re going to a children’s musical, for Christ’s sake” she continued, wondering when the room had become so suffocating and hot. Probably when Miranda walked in wearing that dress.

              “I am at loss as to what you are referring, Andrea. I’m merely offering you a polite greeting, something I have not been given in return.” Miranda quipped softly, slowly approaching the younger woman with a predatory gleam in her eye.

              Andrea found the courage to grin at Miranda and her sudden forwardness. Before she knew it, the Editor had sensually wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling her closer. She sighed when the feathery feel of a silvery lock of hair brushed against her face as Miranda rested her forehead upon her own.

              It was too magical to be true.

              “I do hope Allie takes forever picking her drawings.” Andy mused, unaware she had done so out loud.

              “Hm. As do I. Perhaps we won’t make it to that insipid musical.” Miranda retorted, causing a laugh to bubble up in the brunette’s chest.

              “Allie would be heartbroken.”

              “Not as heartbroken as I will be once I have to get on that plane to New York in the morning. So let me have this.” The Editor said, her voice suddenly tinged with sadness, tightening her hold on the brunette slightly, relishing in the warmth of another body so close to her own. How was such a thing possible? Miranda had never been this warm toward anyone besides her daughters – her Ice Queen moniker was right on the money in that regard. And even then, she had never felt like she _needed_ anyone, certainly not as much as she felt she needed Andrea at this moment.

              Andrea was surprised with Miranda’s sudden honesty. They had not discussed her return to New York and their subsequent separation. They had agreed on stepping back, though they hadn’t really discussed how. Andy had worried Miranda would simply let the physical distance do the stepping back for them; she hadn’t thought about how the Editor felt about it.

              “We’ll figure something out. If I recall, you said you want to… what was it again? Oh, yeah, _date_ me.” Andrea quipped. Miranda chortled sarcastically.

              “Yes, indeed. It’ll be quite hard to wine and dine from across the pond. Though I suppose it’ll give me more excuses to come to London and keep an eye on Caroline…” Miranda mused.

              Andrea laughed, knowing that for most people, keeping an eye on their children by literally flying across the ocean to do so would be a joke. But Miranda, she was dead serious.

              “I wouldn’t worry about it” Andrea reassured the Editor with a firm squeeze at the waist and a kiss to her forehead, just as they heard the tell-tale stomps that heralded Allie’s return.

              “Hm, no, no. After all, you can do anything, right?”

             

             


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. 
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

It was only once Miranda was enclosed in Andrea’s vehicle – along with an over-excited child – that she came upon the realization that she and the brunette had never discussed the logistics of their little outing. While the paparazzi might not be too keen on remaining at Andrea’s doorstep 24/7 anymore, West End was a completely different story. How on earth were two of the biggest names in fashion going to make their way in without throngs of people in their wake? Miranda knew Andrea did not wish for the photographers to hound her daughter, so something had to be done.

Despite her worrying realization, the editor neglected to point it out to her companion. Allie was excitedly naming all things she saw on the street – in French – while Andrea’s hand drew wickedly lazy circles upon Miranda’s thigh, so really it was forgivable. After zoning out for most of the ride, Miranda finally noticed the car had stopped by some building in construction.

It took her longer than she’d ever admit to realize that said building was the very theatre they were supposed to be seeing the children’s musical in. She turned to Andrea, eyebrow preemptively cocked in question, but the brunette was busy speaking to the driver.

“Yes, just in there please.” Andrea said, directing the vehicle into an entrance hidden by scaffolding. Several men in vests and hardhats walked about carrying bags of cement, tools, or miscellaneous pieces of construction material. One of them – a foreman of some sort, Miranda surmised – walked towards their car with a smile on his face. Upon his approach, Andrea beamed at him, while Allie giggled as if she were in on a big joke along with her mother.

“Hiya Ms. Saxton. Everything’s up and ready for ya.”

“Thank you, Jack. Looks good so far, any problems?”

“None whatsoever, Ms. Everyone’s ready for ya, have a grand time.”

Andrea let Allie out first, and the child bounded away with the so-called Jack. The brunette then quickly rounded the car to let an increasingly confused Miranda out.

“I thought we were here for a musical” Miranda confessed.

“So we are.” Andrea replied, her smile never waning.

“Then why does it look like we’re about to strike a deal with the mafia?”

Miranda would have found Andrea’s snort of laughter rather ungrateful once upon a time, but it, along with so many other of the woman’s qualities, had become rather endearing. It was unnerving.

“Worry not, Miranda; you’re not escaping _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._ Even though the mafia is more your caliber.” The brunette joked.

Miranda sniffed.

“Honey, you have no idea.” She said, not expecting Andrea’s startled expression in return. “What? Was it something I said?”

“You called me ‘honey’. Miranda Priestly just called me ‘honey’!”

Miranda blushed, thinking that her massively expensive Clé de Peau personalized foundation better be making itself worth the money by hiding it. Still, by Andrea’s expression, it seemed it was a futile endeavor – she could see it in her eyes.

“Don’t you dare get used to it.” She threatened.

Andrea beamed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it… peaches.” The brunette added to a scandalized Miranda.

The editor was about to retort before she remembered where they were.

“What is the meaning of this? I was not aware the musical had some sort of industrial element to it.” She quipped.

“I mean, it is _Charlie and the Chocolate **Factory**_.” Andrea laughed. “But this little thing, well… There’s no renovation. I just had it arranged so we wouldn’t run into any crowds.” She said sheepishly.

Miranda turned to her former assistant, unable to conceal her surprise.

“You… you hired a construction crew to give us privacy through scaffolding?”

“Of course not! I hired an acting troupe to _play_ a construction crew to give us privacy through scaffolding.” Andrea retorted.

“How… Who… How did you manage this – no, wait, more importantly, how did you cut through all the famous English bureaucracy to pull this off? I can think of at least a doze permits you would need to get this started.” Miranda rambled, to Andrea’s amusement.

“Let’s just say I’ve got friends in high places. Also, actual renovations are scheduled to start tomorrow, so it’s no biggie.”

Miranda wanted very much to say that yes indeed it was a biggie, but she did not have the chance. An impatient Allie peered out from the theatre doors, motioning for the two to join her.

“Hello!! Mum! We’re going to be late, do you want them to start without us?”

The editor wanted to laugh; she doubted anyone would start anything without Andrea’s presence.

“We’ll be right there, sweetheart. Why don’t you grab us some seats?” Andrea countered, stopping Miranda in her tracks after Allie huffed and went back in.

“Before we go in, I just need to say something…” she said, her voice as timid as it had been when she was Miranda’s assistant.

“Oh?” Miranda said simply.

“As much as I would like to, this is not quite an _entirely_ private viewing.”

“Oh.”

“There are only a few people there – couples mostly. I figured Allie would have more fun seeing this with some of her friends from school rather than with some boring adults like us, and she hasn’t seem them in a while because of the whole paparazzi thing, so I just thought… Anyway, it’s just a few kids and their parents, but I can assure you everyone has been properly warned and no one will breathe a word of this to anyone and I just wanted to…”

Andrea was stopped in her worried tirade by a gentle finger to her lips.

“Andrea. I am sure everything will go swimmingly. I only wish for you to stop your babbling. It truly doesn’t become someone like Alexandra Saxton.” Miranda said softly.

The brunette smiled.

“Sorry. I promise everyone will be uh… cool about it, I just wasn’t sure what your thoughts would be.” She confessed.

Miranda chuckled.

“No need to worry, I promise I will be… cool about it.”

In a fit of brazenness, Miranda took Andrea’s arm and confidently walked into the theatre – she could already hear Allie’s and other children’s impatient shouts. Instead of fretting about it, she took the bull by the horns – or rather, her lover by the arm – and strode into the mostly vacant theatre. She could see a small conglomeration of children close to the stage; some adults conversed a few rows back.

“Miranda, these are some of our friends – their kids all know Allie from school. Everyone, this is Miranda” Andrea introduced them, and Miranda could not help but notice the little hint of pride in her voice. It made her smile.

Instantly she recognized a few faces in the crowd. Diplomats, a famous British children’s author, a big-time Iranian designer, and a well-known Russian photographer were among them. It seemed Alexandra Saxton and Andrea kept the same circle of friends, at least.

The children’s excitement did not allow much time for full introductions, but nevertheless, the group struck Miranda as quite respectful of whatever relationship she and Andrea shared. No one asked questions, no one even seemed to notice as the two women sat by one another, holding hands. Maybe the presence of another same-sex couple helped – the author and his husband were very openly affectionate. Miranda was thankful for the absolute lack of interest. There was no need to discuss whatever they had with other people, not yet, not when they had yet to figure out a way to navigate their relationship.

Thankfully, all such thoughts were immediately banished as the lights darkened and a string of dancers wearing heavy orange make-up came down the aisles between seats. Miranda barely caught the bar of chocolate as it was tossed in her direction; the children went wild.

“Oy, vey.” She murmured to herself. Andrea chuckled.

 

 

 

Claire got out of her steaming hot bath after a good hour of soaking. Her fingers and toes were pruned from the long time in the water, but she did not mind; a good bath was wonderful for her tired muscles.

She had gone out for a run in the morning, which turned into an impromptu walking field trip through the city that lasted all the way into the afternoon. Even in her excellent shape, she knew she had pushed it; her joints would surely be complaining tomorrow.

Still, she had no regrets. It had been a wonderfully sunny day, and she actually enjoyed the outing. Truthfully, she would have found any excuse to be out of the house when Miranda Priestly came back.

She huffed, toweling her short hair in annoyance. It needed another cut, soon. As much as she hated the _Runway_ Editor, she had to admit the hairstyle suited her. Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery and all that. In any case, she hopefully would not have to deal with the woman any time soon – Miranda was due back in New York by the next day, so whatever she had going on with Andrea would be at least on pause until then. On a professional setting, Claire could function. It was when things got personal that all shit hit the fan.

She hated what Miranda Priestly did to Andy. Not exactly _what_ she did, but how it made Andy feel. Before now, anytime the name ‘Priestly’ was even so much as whispered in her direction, Andrea would have a near-panic attack. Who knew that all she needed was for the Bitch in Heels to swoon over some sketches for her to find some courage that didn’t come from a bottle?

Claire felt remotely bad for being so harsh on her boss; her ex-girlfriend; her _friend._ Still, all she had wanted was to protect her and little Allie from whatever heartbreak was sure to come from the Ice Queen. How many husbands had that woman gone through over the years? How many careers had she destroyed? 

The blonde was interrupted from her musings with the sound of the back door being unlocked. Despite knowing Andrea’s security detail was present, her heart skipped a beat. Who on earth would be coming in from the back door at this hour? Andrea’s outing was surely not over, and Bartley always made his presence known via the intercom.

With trepidation, Claire slowly made her way downstairs in her robe, wishing she had let Andrea keep that blasted baseball bat around. Whoever had just come in did not care to be quiet; they stomped around like they owned the place.

Purely instinctively, Claire grabbed one of the silver candelabras from the side table in the corridor. Just in case?

“Who goes there?!” she shouted.

Her exclamation was promptly followed by a resounding crash and a yelp of pain. Claire ran towards the intruder, only to find none other than the one other person she could say she hated in the world under the heavy wrought-iron coat rack.

“Mrs. Sachs??”

 

After one of the most awkward reintroductions she had ever been through – which consisted of her lifting the coatrack and then tending to the older woman’s knee, all in her bathrobe – Claire found herself in the kitchen making tea for Helen Sachs.

A day like this one warranted an early night.

“I am so sorry for just coming in here. Andy didn’t tell me she’d be out today.” Helen said apologetically.

“It’s quite alright. I wasn’t aware that she had given you keys.” Claire said coldly. For Andrea’s sake, she’d be civil to her mother. Anything more than mere civility was off the table as far as Helen Sachs was concerned.

“Oh, yes. She only gave them to me last week, really. So I wouldn’t go through all that security, you know? I guess it’s a long way from jumping the back gate, huh?” Helen Sachs babbled on, much like her daughter used to do when she was nervous. Claire said nothing.

“Anyway, thank you for the ice-pack. That coat rack is so gosh-darn heavy, I wonder how I even knocked it over in the first place.” The older woman continued, wringing her hands together. The tall blonde sitting across from her only sipped her tea.

“Oh well, I guess I’m just such a klutz, you know. Wonder how I can even walk without tripping everywhere, Andy is just like that. Or well, she used to be when she was a teenager, gee, you wouldn’t know it was the same woman walking around those stilettos today, it’s just so…”

The more Helen Sachs babbled, the more attention Claire paid to her tea. It took a few more false starts until the older woman could determine Claire Murdoch did not care for small talk.

“Well… this is quite awkward, isn’t it?” Mrs. Sachs said at last.

“Indeed, it is.” Claire agreed.

“You must hate the very sight of me.”

“You assume correctly.”

Claire’s assumption did not seem to startle or upset the Sachs matriarch, which confused her greatly. Instead, Helen merely laughed; an empty, bitter and defeated kind of laugh.

“I don’t blame you, Claire. I said and did some horrible, horrible things to you… to Andy, to my own daughter. I was nothing short of a… I was really a complete and utter-- ”

“A complete and utter bitch.” Claire completed, getting another bitter chuckle from Helen.

“That’s right. But… I’m never, ever going to ask you or Andy for forgiveness. What I’ve done, there’s no forgiveness for that. For turning my own daughter away. I saw you as some wicked woman who had seduced my daughter somehow… But now I know better. I can only apologize; God knows it isn’t enough, but I apologize.”

Claire merely nodded in acknowledgement. She knew Andrea had been meeting with her mother almost weekly in order to rebuild their relationship and introduce her to her granddaughter. And while part of her commended the two women for trying to work it out, she would never, ever be able to forget the pain Helen had caused her own daughter and herself. No, Helen Sachs and Miranda Priestly would always be at the top of her “Could Live Without” list.

“Frankly, Mrs. Sachs, thank you for your apology. I cannot and I will not accept it for now. Andy is out for the day, would you like me to give her a message that you stopped by?” The dismissal was clear, though Helen Sachs did not seem bothered by it in the least.

“Oh, no. That’s very kind of you, but… I wanted to tell Andy in person, but I guess I can leave a voicemail or something. I have a flight to the States tonight.”

Claire quirked an eyebrow. Tonight? For all she knew, Mrs. Sachs was planning on staying in London for at least another month or so, to get to know her granddaughter.

“So soon?” She asked despite herself.

“Well, yes. I have got some urgent business to attend to”

The woman’s timidly sad tone took the blonde by surprise. What sort of ‘urgent business would a retired teacher need to attend to?

“Urgent business? May I ask what it is about?”

Helen Sachs looked as if she was debating telling her for a moment, before conceding.

“Please do not speak to Andy before she receives my message. It’s her father.”

“Her father?” Claire asked. Andy’s break from her father had been even more bitter than from her mother’s. Her knowledge from Andy’s recent conversations with her mother informed her that the Sachs’ had separated a few years ago.

“Yes, well. I am still technically his wife, and… He’s sick.”

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW! Sorry I've been away for such an ungodly amount of time. Real life was taking over, but mostly in a good way! Ya girl just GRADUATED with a BA and a shiny 4.0! So very sorry for this intermission, it was for a good cause, but we are back to business. Thank you all for your support, your reviews, and your messages begging me to continue with this story. You make this all worthwhile. Onwards!


	46. Chapter 46

Miranda leaned into the soft leather of the backseat, closing her eyes for a few moments. Thankfully, little Alice had gone on to a friend's house for a sleepover after the show, so she was off the hook in pretending she had enjoyed the musical.

She felt Andrea sink into the seat right next to her and frowned. She could  _feel_ rather than see the brunette's insufferable smirk.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, darling, it is positively unnerving." She said, earning a guffaw of laughter from the woman by her side.

"Come on, Miranda. It was not  _that bad._ "

Miranda opened her eyes, annoyed to see that the smirk had widened into a full-blown grin.

"Of course not. I give you the Louvre, you give me… Oompa Loompas." She hissed, and that opened the floodgates of laughter on Andrea's part.

"Oh, come off it. This was Allie's idea and she was really happy you came."

Miranda's expression softened into a smile.

"She was, wasn't she? She might be the only child in the world who  _enjoys_ spending time with the Devil in Prada. In my memory, not even Caroline and Cassidy were ever so keen." She said, winking at Andrea to let her know she was jesting.

"I enjoy spending time with you." Andrea said softly. Miranda smirked wickedly.

"Yes, but you are no child, are you, Andrea?" she quipped as the brunette leaned closer and closer, looking intently at her lips.

"Not even close" she whispered.

Miranda had braced herself for the incoming kiss; her eyes were halfway closed already. Unfortunately, Andrea was stopped in her tracks by the shrill ringing of her cellphone.

"Ah, dammit. Sorry" She said apologetically, leaning back into her own seat and fishing out the ringing mobile. Miranda waved her off – it would be the height of hypocrisy if she complained about a ringing phone, of all things. How many times had she left her husbands and others hanging due to an impending phone call?

"Huh, it's a voicemail." Andrea murmured, her hand coming up to play with Miranda's forelock as she listened. The Editor closed her eyes once more, feeling the pleasant tickle of her hair occasionally brushing against her forehead as Andrea twirled it in her fingers.

Suddenly, Miranda felt the brunette tense up – she opened her eyes to see an astonished expression upon her companion's face. Before she could say anything, Andrea furiously hit a button on her phone bringing it back to her ear. A few tense rings later, Miranda could hear the beep of voicemail from the other line.

"Mom! What's this about?! Call me as soon as you can." Andrea said, frantically.

It didn't take a genius to figure out something horribly wrong.

"What is going on?" Miranda asked, hoping her tone was gentle enough. Andrea looked at her with an odd expression; the Editor couldn't quite pinpoint if it was fear, anger, or shame. Maybe all three.

"My mother. She just up and left; she went back to the States without telling me." She said, then shook her head. "Well, she left me a voicemail, but still."

Miranda was not aware Andera had kept in contact with her mother. She wondered how the woman dealt with having a world-famous daughter – she knew her own never got the opportunity.

"Has something happened?"

Andrea kept shaking her head. "Jesus, you have no idea."

Miranda gave the younger woman a few moments to collect herself. It took a lot of her self-control not to push her; she hadn't seen the brunette this wound up since they had started… whatever it was they were doing.

"My mother… It's complicated. She came to see me out of the blue. She wanted to stay in London for a couple of months to get to know her granddaughter."

Miranda frowned.

"She did not know her own granddaughter? How old is Allie, five, six?" she questioned. Something did not add up.

"Ugh. I need a drink." Andrea groaned. Miranda gingerly reached over the brunette's lap, to the minute fridge housed in the town-car. There was one small bottle of bourbon; Andrea took it from her, taking a few gulps to steady her shaky hands.

"My mother and I had not spoken for years. I hadn't seen her since I left New York." She confessed. Miranda could not hide her bewilderment.

"So long? What happened?" she asked, because she was willing to bet Andrea was not the kind of person to just abandon her family for no reason. The girl's heart was too pure for that; something terrible would have happened to push her to such an extreme.

"Long story short… I came out tried to introduce her to my girlfriend at the time – Claire, incidentally. She basically disowned me, told me I was trash, and that she never wanted to see me again."

Miranda took two things away from that new information. One, she was right – something terrible  _had_ happened to drive such a wedge between Andrea and her family. She didn't need to imagine the feeling. But two – and why her damned brain decided to latch onto that little tidbit, Miranda had absolutely no idea – Andrea and Claire had at one point been intimate. Her eyes narrowed. She  _knew it._

"And you never saw her again?" she asked.

Andrea nodded. "Not until she broke into my house a few weeks ago."

"She  _what_?" Miranda asked, astonished.

Andrea managed to let out a dry laugh.

"She broke into my house to see me. To apologize and… try to turn a new leaf, I suppose." She looked at Miranda and her doubtful expression. "I know, I was skeptical too. But she's really been trying; we both have. She really seems to regret all that she's missed, especially Allie."

"And you? What do you think of all of this?" Miranda asked gently. Andrea's shoulders sagged.

"I just want my mother back." She said, so softly Miranda was not sure whether she was meant to hear it.

"Give it time" she said, giving Andrea's hand what she hoped was a comforting squeeze. She would have liked to tell her lover that everything would be alright, and that Andrea would in time be able to repair whatever frayed relationship she had with her mother and the rest of her family. Unfortunately, she could not say anything of the sort with even an ounce of meaning. She had killed Miriam Princhek when she became Miranda Priestly, but her old family had buried her – and made sure she so remained – forever.

"I don't know" Andrea said, playing with Miranda's fingers. "She rushed back to the States because my father is sick." She confessed.

Miranda moved to hug the younger woman – a little unsure why, as Miranda Priestly was definitively not a hugger. Still, once Andrea melted in her arms, she figured exceptions would have to be made, at least for two Sachs women.

"And how do you feel about that?" Andrea scoffed.

"Part of me wants nothing to do with it. That night… when they kicked me out, I think it was the first and only time I ever thought my father would actually strike me." A shiver ran through the brunette's back; Miranda followed it with her hand in an attempt to soothe it. "I was so afraid" Andrea whispered into Miranda's neck.

"And the other part?" the editor asked?

"The other part wants her father back, too."

Andrea sighed into Miranda. She had met with her mother on a few occasions while Helen Sachs remained in London. After their first strained meeting, Andrea had begun to have second thoughts. No matter how much she wanted to rebuild her relationship with her mother, the cuts ran deep. It took a couple of meetings for her to stop second-guessing everything the other woman said.

To her credit, Helen Sachs had been trying. She never asked for forgiveness – she knew full well her daughter was not ready to give it, and might not ever be.

 _"I've made my peace with it, Andy"_ she had said in one of their meetings. Andrea had led her to the Alexandra Saxton studio; she had some work to do, but still wanted to see her mother. They had been having a few short meetings over the weeks, usually an hour or so. Allie had yet to be properly introduced to her grandmother, but they were getting there.

_"I know that we will never go to how things were. I just want to get to know you – if not as your mother, then as a friend."_

_Andrea looked at her mother, who was looking intently into her mug of tea._

_"Mom… I want to have that, I do. It's just… This is harder than I thought it would be." She confessed. Helen looked disappointed, but resigned._

_"And that is my fault." She said resolutely._

_There was no way to turn back time – both women knew that. The only solution was to move forward, but how would they manage such a feat with so much history and pain between them?_

_Andy busied herself with some sketches, she was working on some limited release pieces for the launch of Saxton International. She still did not trust her mother with such delicate information, so as far as Helen Sachs was concerned, her daughter was just doing what she did every day._

_"That looks beautiful" Helen interrupted, looking at the sketch Andrea was presently working on. It was an evening gown, composed of an intricate construction of flowing fabric and panels of mesh. "You were a talented artist as a child, I just never thought you'd go in this direction" she said with a smile. Andy grinned._

_Helen looked at her daughter, a mixture of sadness and pride in her eyes._

_"I am so proud of you, Andy. Truly." She said, a single tear escaping and running down her cheek._

_"Oh, ma, don't cry." Andy said, pulling a tissue out of an ornate box, handing it to her mother, who now looked absolutely stunned._

_"What is it?" She gasped as Helen started to cry._

_"You called me 'ma'" Helen said in-between sobs. "I thought I would never hear you call me that again." She gasped. "And I'm responsible for that."_

_"Oh, ma." Andy murmured, holding her mother in her arms with a smile. Every time she hugged her mother, it felt more and more like it used to when she was a child. She was glad. "Come on, talk about something else. I'm tired of talking about me. You've seen my house, you've seen my studio… I could show you to the wine cellar, but from what I remember, you can't hold your liquor at all." She joked, hoping to lighten the air._

_"Hah!" Helen laughed through a sob. "You're right. Never could, still can't. Especially not wine." She said. Andrea guided her to sit down on one of the stools surrounding her workspace, patiently waiting for her to calm down._

_"Let me see… The last crazy thing I did was jump on a plane to London to find you."_

_Andy hesitated. Part of her did not want to ask about it, not one bit. But the other part was louder._

_"What did dad say to that?"_

_Helen shrugged. To Andrea's surprise, she looked angry._

_"He has no idea I've come." She sighed. "You might as well know: your father and I are not together anymore."_

_Andrea could not contain her bewilderment._

_"What?! You divorced?"_

_"In all but paper, yes. We haven't lived together for the past… Four years, I believe."_

_"Four years! That long?" she all but yipped._

_Helen nodded somberly. "A year or two after you left… I was already having second thoughts; about our relationship, about what we had done to you… When we pushed you away, you have to understand, Andy, it broke me. I truly did. I prayed. I had always been taught that what you were,_ who  _you were was wrong, sinful. But how would God, a God that is good, have me banish my own daughter forever?"_

_She righted herself in her stool._

_"Your father… I couldn't take it. As time went on, he acted like you never existed. He took down most of your pictures from the house, and I couldn't understand… You were always such a daddy's girl. And all he kept were pictures from when you were a kid. I couldn't stand that house anymore, he acted like you had died years and years before." She said, and Andrea could see the anger mounting in her eyes._

_"And then…I don't know how it happened exactly, but the guilt was eating at me, and I just could not stand him pretending you didn't exist not a minute more. I was in pain, every single day, over this… this monstrosity that we had done to our own daughter, and there he was drinking a beer and watching the game like it was just any other day."_

_"Oh, ma…" Andy began, only to be interrupted by Helen's shaking hand, raised into the air._

_"About four years ago… I just snapped. I said we had to go look for you, that we had made a grave, grave mistake." She continued angrily. "I said, 'Harold, we have to look for our daughter'. And you know what he said to me? He said, 'we don't have a daughter anymore, Helen.'"_

_Andy didn't know she had begun to cry, it was only once her mother had reached up and gently wiped at her tear tracks that she felt the wet heat on her cheeks._

_"And that was it. I packed my bags and found an apartment in New York."_

_Andrea's head snapped up to look her mother in the eye._

_"New York? You went to New York – no, you_ moved  _to New York to find me?"_

_Helen nodded, somewhat sheepishly._

_"Well, I… yes. It was the last place you were. I called up Lily, Doug, and even Nate, but you hadn't spoken to them. I called_ The Mirror,  _but they told me you had quit. I even found the Human Resources Number for_ Runway,  _but all they could give me was your previous address to the apartment you lived in with Nate. I even hired a private investigator, but I'm pretty sure I just got scammed out of money." She said with an embarrassed blush tinging her cheeks._

_"In the end… New York was so expensive. I found another, cheaper place to live, with this woman named Dorothy. She's about my age, and has a son… She was a godsend. She helped me through some issues, let me tell you… She took me to her congregation; I hadn't found a good church since I had gotten to the city. But she took me to this place, full of drag-queens and so many different people… It was so weird, I felt so out of place, and… ugly, I don't know. But Dorothy was the one who helped me reconcile my faith with the love I had for you. Being gay shouldn't preclude anybody from their parents' love, of God's, for that matter."_

_Andy was nothing short of stunned. Did her mother just tell her she now attended a gay church?_

_"And her son, bless his heart. He and his husband got me a job at their company – they own a legal firm, so I've been there as kind of an administrative assistant. They nicknamed me The Office Grandma" she laughed._

_Andy's eyes were bugging out of her head._

_"Ma… that's incredible." She said, grinning at her mother's bashful look._

_"No, not incredible. I had to find you. I failed, but I had to try. And then" Helen's eyes started shimmering with tears once more. "When I thought I would never see you again, Gregory – that's Dorothy's son – bursts into the office and tosses me a copy of Vogue. I think I passed out on the spot." She said. "And then it was so much information at once – I found out who you were, I found out you had a daughter, and I found out you lived in London. I bought a ticket using your dad's and mine's joint account – I hadn't used it in years, but he never closed it either. I found a hostel and started looking for everything I could find on Alexandra Saxton. I had seen your house on TV, but I didn't know where it was. And then… I found the celebrity tour bus" she said, gripping her mug of tea so tightly her knuckles turned white._

_"And then you jumped the fence and were tackled by my security guard" Andy said humorously._

_Helen grinned, taking a sip of her tea._

_"Indeed. What a man."_

Miranda felt Andrea sigh once more. The brunette had been silent for several long moments, no doubt reminiscing. She chose not to interrupt, she was quite content with merely holding her in her arms.

"Mom and I have been talking for the past few weeks. Allie had never met her, so we did that. I don't think she even knew the significance, she was just happy to meet her grandmother and bake cookies with her all day. My mom, on the other hand, cried like a baby all day." She said, her tone not as sad as it had been a few minutes before.

"And what of your father?" Miranda asked.

Andrea scoffed. "Mom hasn't talked to him in years – they're separated. She went to New York to look for me. But now, according to her voicemail, he's sick and in the hospital. She's still technically his wife, and I'm pretty sure she's still his proxy." The woman said, defeated. "I don't know what to do." She admitted.

"How sick is he?" Miranda prodded, hoping she was not overstepping.

"I don't know." Andrea said. "But mom said he was in the hospital – it has to be bad, or she wouldn't be going back to the States, to Ohio, to see him."

Miranda nodded in understanding, remembering how her own family relations had gone after she became Miranda Priestly.

"When I left… You know I am originally from London, though that is not a widely-advertised fact." She said. Andrea snapped up to look directly at her eyes.

"I thought I had heard you speak with a British accent that one time!" she accused. Miranda's eyes widened.

"Never! I paid thousands of dollars for elocution lessons!" She hissed, but waved her hand in dismissal. "But darling, that's not the point. The point is… When I left this blasted city, I left my family behind as well. I had a falling out with them too, but… Well, I never knew my father had passed away until five years after the fact" she said.

"Oh, Miranda…" Andrea began, but Miranda dismissed her.

"I can assure you, I probably did not have the relationship with my father that you once had with yours. But even then… Even then…" she trailed off. "I'm sorry, I am sure I had a point to this, but I seem to have forgotten." She said bitterly.

Andrea simply nodded.

"In any case… You'll know what to do. In the meantime, there is nothing you  _can_ do until you hear more. So why don't you wait until tomorrow and give your mother a call?" She suggested, a bit of her Ice Queen mask back into place. She thought she would be ready to discuss family matters, but she was not; not even with Andrea. Particularly not with Andrea.

"I understand…" Andrea said, once again playing with Miranda's fingers on her lap. The ride continued in silence; a heavy, bitter silence. Miranda realized the car was not going to Andrea's residence, but to her hotel. She sighed. She had yet to pack for her flight; there would be no more time to enjoy Andrea's company until God only knew when. She frowned at the realization.

"I wish I did not have to go" she thought aloud, feeling Andrea's arms tighten around her.

"Me either." Andrea admitted, her voice fearful, as fearful as it had been when she was Miranda's assistant. "I don't want this to end so soon."

Miranda held the brunette's face in her hands.

"Darling,  _this_ is only beginning." She said forcefully. She had to say it loud and clear, so she could believe it. No matter how, they would make this work; Miranda refused to accept any other alternative. She did not care if she had to come to London every month; she would make an excuse, any excuse. For the first time in her life, Miranda Priestly would put in the effort. She only hoped Andrea could understand.

"I'm actually afraid, Miranda. How are we going to do this?" Andrea asked, full of doubt. Miranda leant in, resting her forehead against Andrea's, looking deeply into the vastness of those mocha-brown eyes.

"The same way we do anything in our lives, darling – impeccably."


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny chapter. This one is kind of an interlude, couldn't quite figure out how to fit it in with the next one, which is coming soon.
> 
> ~Naralanis

For what seemed like the millionth time, the sun had long gone down, and she was still sitting in her office, rifling through pages upon pages of work. It was so strange, to notice the sun gradually like this; her previous office did not have any windows, so it was much easier to get lost in her work. But now, in her expansive workspace with its massive windows, she could feel the passage of time much more strongly. It was worse knowing that her girlfriend did not work with her anymore – the absence of those stolen moments at work was proving to be really trying.

Her mobile rang. Speak of the devil.

“Hello?”

“Hello, _querida._ How is it going tonight?”

Emily sighed – hearing Serena’s voice after such a long day was a balm to her exhausted soul.

“Much of the same, unfortunately.”

“Have you eaten?”

The redhead blushed, caught. “No.”

“Look up.”

Emily did, and had to let out a laugh at what she saw right outside her open door. Serena – wearing _joggers_ – stood there, phone in one hand and a heavy bag of takeaway in the other. The blonde had a cocked eyebrow, her reprimand clearly displayed with her usual affection.

“Oh, please tell me it’s Indian.” Emily said, still through her phone, even as she beckoned her girlfriend in.

“ _Claro._ Your favorite.” Serena said as she hung up, walking into Emily’s office with her confident stride. “I must say, it is marvelous to have a driver at our disposal – I didn’t even have to get out of the car!”

Emily laughed as she helped the blonde set up their meal. After a short while, they were happily settled onto the sofa, Serena’s legs over the redhead’s lap.

“How goes the house-hunting?” she asked.

“Much better now. The agency was really quite helpful. We’ve narrowed it down to two places – I know which one you’ll pick, but I’m not telling you until you see both of them.” Serena teased.

“Wonderful. I can’t wait until we’re situated, this temporary thing is driving me insane.” Emily confessed. “And how goes the job hunt?” she pressed. Serena shrugged her shoulders.

“Much of the same… Getting all the valid permits was already a royal pain in the butt. I understand now why you Brits are all so tightly wound.” She confessed. “ _A verdade, querida,_ is that I won’t have much luck. I don’t have a European passport, and I am not your spouse. I’m afraid this will have to wait.” Serena smiled a little sadly, but her tone let Emily know she was not blaming her for anything, which only made the redhead feel even guiltier. “Perhaps I can learn to be a good little housewife!” she joked.

Emily furrowed her brow.

“Well, become my spouse, then.” She said simply.

Serena choked on her curry vindaloo. “ _Perdão_?! What are you saying?”

“Yeah” Emily started again, speaking quickly so that she could get it all out there without losing her nerve. “We get married, that solves all of our problems. You get residency, then citizenship at some point or other, and that’s all our problems solved!” she all but gasped.

Serena’s jaw hung open, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Are you proposing?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Yes. Serena Betancourt de Viana e Lins… will you make me the happiest woman in the world and save us from my country’s infamous bureaucracy by becoming my wife?”

“Emily Rose Charlton!” Serena practically screeched. “A girl doesn’t wait her entire life to hear a proposal like that!” She pouted, making Emily guffaw with laughter. She playfully slapped her girlfriend on her shoulder and the two went back to eating.

“Incidentally, my answer is yes.” The blonde suddenly said, making it Emily’s turn to choke on her food. She menacingly pointed a fork in her girlfriend’s direction. “But _pelo amor de Deus,_ work on a better proposal.”

Emily smiled through her coughs.

 

 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” said a voice, forcefully yanking her covers.

“Ugh… Claire, not now, I was in a conference call with fucking Japan until all hours of the night. Give me a break.” Andrea said, grumbling into her pillow.

Claire rolled her eyes as she walked towards the window, opening the blinds with no warning. The brunette on the bed hissed.

“Come on, Dracula, we’ve got a million things to set up and instate Itsumi Nakamura as Saxton International’s Fashion Director! This calls for a celebration!” the blonde insisted.

“I didn’t hire Nakamura.” Andrea groaned.

“Excuse me?!” Claire hissed. Andrea mumbled a few choice words before awkwardly sitting up. Claire rolled her eyes and rubbed her temples.

Once Miranda Priestly had left for New York, Claire was exceedingly thankful to have things back to business as usual. She did not ask, she would not ask, and she tried her best to convince herself she truly did not care. She ignored the almost-nightly Skype calls and any text that brought a smile to Andrea’s face. They had a company to build and she did not want Miranda Priestly to get in the way. Thankfully, Andy had been professional about it – she didn’t expect anything else from Alexandra Saxton, after all – and gotten right back into the swing of things.

So far, as long as Miranda Priestly was well and far away, Claire was just peachy, thanks. Sure, they had to plan Alexandra’s return to New York for fashion week, but work was something she could stand.

Now if Andy didn’t block her every step of the way as far as Saxton International was concerned.

“I don’t understand you, Andrea. Why was the call so long, then?” she asked, trying to find the logic in the brunette’s train of thought. Elizabeth James herself had recommended the Fashion Editor from the Japanese edition of Marie Claire – an old protégée, she had said. “We have brunch with Elizabeth _today._ What are you going to tell her when you’ve spent all this time stalling and not actually _hiring_ anybody?”

Andrea shrugged. “I’m going to tell her that Itsumi was wonderful, but that I see her fitting in well at another area.” She said.

“And which area would that be?” Claire pressed.

“She’ll make a wonderful Director of Artistic Development.” She quipped wickedly.

Claire narrowed her eyes.

“ _You_ will be the one telling Elizabeth, I’m washing my hands of this.” She retorted, stalking out of the room.

Andy groaned, running a hand through her hair. She knew she was being difficult. Claire had worked an absolute miracle to keep the Saxton International plans moving along mostly on schedule, but her procrastination in hiring a Fashion Director was threatening to derail the entire thing. But a Fashion Director would have such massively expansive control over so many moving parts, she was reluctant to hire just anyone. She _knew_ they needed one. It didn’t mean she had to like it; if she had it her way, Alexandra Saxton herself would be the one behind every little gear and cog that moved this behemoth of a company they were trying to make.

She slowly got up and ready. It was much too early for comfort, but she needed to rip the band-aid. Elizabeth had been wonderfully patient with all of this – what, with her stake in the company and all – but Andrea could tell that patience was starting to fade away.

It would be fine, she told herself. It had to be.

She started to doubt that when Elizabeth stopped a forkful of her whites-only omelet on the way to her mouth when Claire unceremoniously relayed that Andrea had not, in fact, hired Nakamura to be a Fashion Director, though she did seem somewhat mollified the woman had been hired for another role.

“Darling, you have got to make a decision. This is spinning out of control.” She said, not unkindly.

A small part of Andy wanted to give an undignified huff. The Alexandra part, however, only smiled as she took a dainty sip of her mimosa. “Well, do you have someone in mind?” Elizabeth pressed.

“No, I do not.” She confessed. “But we will keep looking. I don’t want just anyone for this role, Elizabeth. And while I appreciate and welcome you and your involvement with Saxton International, this is still my brand. I don’t want to hire just anyone.”

“Itsumi Nakamura wasn’t just anyone,” Elizabeth argued “she was an excellent candidate with years of experience.”

“I agree, that’s why I hired her as Director of Artistic Development. I am sure she’ll be wonderful” Andrea said, narrowing her eyes.

Elizabeth looked like she was about to retort, when suddenly a bright smile tugged at her lips.

“I think I have another idea…” She reached for her purse, rummaging inside briefly before revealing a business card. She gave it to Andrea. “It seems you want someone a little more _malleable_.”

Andrea looked down at the card, puzzled.

“This is Emily Charlton. You want me to poach the _British Runway_ EIC? Looking to get your old job back, Elizabeth?”

“Ha! Not in a million years.” She laughed. “But give Ms. Charlton a call, will you? I believe she knows somebody.”

 


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAHHHH so my stubbornness on writing things by hand finally came to bite me in the butt. I lost my notebook with my detailed outline HAHAHA so prob some person at the DC Metro is having a very... interesting read? ANYWAY, hopefully it won't be too bad - this is kind of writing itself. Sorry if it seems slow, but we've got some bigger happenings along the way! Enjoy!
> 
> ~Naralanis

 

* * *

It was not often that Miranda had a day off without her daughters present. Funnily enough, as they grew older, they spent more and more time with their mother. Of course, the famed teenager tantrums came and went, but the three Priestly women had only strengthened their bond as time went on. Miranda had made more of an effort to actually be present – not at school recitals and sporting events, when other parents were there to see her; but at home, for dinner, for breakfast, for walks in the park and for holidays. As Miranda became more and more approachable, the girls' father seemed to do the opposite – he had remarried, to his secretary, no less, and had another child.

At one point, Caroline and Cassidy decided they would rather live with their mother – permanently. It had hurt Miranda, but the girls most of all, when their father did not even contest the decision. Now, the most they saw of him were during the two-or-so weeks during summer when they visited. Otherwise, it was the usual Christmas or birthday card, or some weekend or other when he was in town and available.

Today, however, Miranda was all alone in the townhouse. Well, not entirely alone. Lady, the Dalmatian, followed her everywhere she went. Both Caroline and Cassidy were out for the weekend, enjoying their friends before they all went their separate ways for college.

Miranda huffed. She liked most of their friends well enough, but she did not care for the boy Caroline was seeing. Luckily, she knew her daughter was too much like her to keep a relationship like that going long-distance. The young man was going to Yale – no doubt because so had his father – while Caroline would be off in London.

The Editor shuddered. Wasn't she the one trying to maintain a long-distance relationship herself, at the moment? But Andrea was different. Andrea was not some high-school sweetheart with a car. She and Miranda had  _history._

Lady followed her as Miranda went down to the kitchen for a glass of wine, stopping every now and then for a few ear-scratches. Miranda smiled – now  _this_ was a pet. None of that feline nonsense.

Andrea had messaged her a few hours prior to let her know she would not be able to make their semi-nightly Skype call. It was quite strange, actually scheduling personal conversations with the brunette. For most of her life, Miranda didn't bother, but for once, she wanted to at least try. She had never been so ready to put in the effort.

Whatever she and Andrea had going was quite confusing and, not surprisingly, difficult to navigate. It was much easier when they were together. Now, across the ocean, Miranda couldn't decide whether they were going too fast or too slow. At times, she could not bear the glacial pace they were taking, due to circumstance and their own damn decisions. Other times, she wanted to hit the brakes; it was as if too much was coming in all at once and she could do nothing to slow it down.

She had not told the twins yet. Part of it was because she worried what they might think; however, she had to admit that part was relatively small. Caroline and Cassidy had absolutely no problem with same-sex relationships. She knew that due to Caroline's volunteering with the ACLU for LGBT Youth in her junior year, and Cassidy's coming out about two years prior. No, no, any problem they might have would not be caused by the possibly gay thing, it would be caused by the mother thing.

She didn't even truly know what the girls thought of Andrea. Cassidy obviously thought it quite hilarious, to have her mother going gaga for designs made by her old assistant. Caroline, before Andrea's infamous reveal, was the biggest Saxton fan in the House – right after Miranda. Now, Miranda noticed her wearing more and more Westwood, but she couldn't tell if it was because she now found some kind of fault with Alexandra Saxton – now that the 'magic' was gone – or if she was merely experimenting, as Caroline was wont to do.

In any case, her day off would sadly not be spent in relaxation. No, she had plans – what would Miranda Priestly be without the constant plotting relegated to the backburner? She had plans, grand plans for New York Fashion Week and her 20th anniversary gala taking place that year. Not to mention, she was still overseeing the launch of  _Men's Runway_. She had given Nigel quite a bit of slack, but ultimately, she would be damned if she let the project set sail without her initial approval.

She had been pondering such matters with great attention once the phone rang.

"Yes?" she said as she picked up. Miranda had no need to double check the number, even though she had never actually saved it to a name on her phone.

"Enjoying your day off?" said Andrea at the other end.

"You know quite well I never stop working. Incidentally, I thought you'd be quite the busy bee this weekend – isn't that why I won't be seeing you tonight?"

Andrea laughed.

"I had a few minutes. I missed your voice."

Miranda smiled, even though she wanted to kick herself for the little flutterings in her chest as Andrea admitted missing her. Good god, how old was she, fifteen?!

"And I've missed yours. What has been keeping you so busy?" Miranda inquired, not for the first time. It didn't take a genius to know Andrea – or Alexandra, whichever – was a certified workaholic. But in the off-season, she wondered what could possibly keep the brunette so busy. Certainly not a new collection; Andrea had already developed a lot of her upcoming material, and with the speed the woman worked, Miranda would be surprised to have her work on something so far in advance.

"I've got some new  _stuff_ in mind." Andrea said nonchalantly, which only served to stoke Miranda's curiosity. "You'll know it when it's time. Maybe it'll even be the gown you want for your 20th." She quipped, knowing how it irritated Miranda to be kept in the dark and enjoying every minute of it. "At the moment, I'm procuring staff."

"Don't you have your darling bulldog already? What else could you need?" Miranda sniffed. A few weeks before, Andrea had told her Claire wasn't her biggest fan. Like Miranda needed anyone to tell her that. Next time she had the opportunity, she would tell Claire the feeling was entirely mutual.

"I think Claire is more like a Rotweiller." Andrea chucked. "She's pretty vicious, in a good way."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Yes, while we're discussing the dog-breed most representative of your lovely assistant, may I take the opportunity to bypass her entirely and discuss a few things with you?" she tried.

She could practically  _feel_ Andrea's subtle shake of her head.

"If you actually want to discuss business, Miranda, you're going through my assistant, like everyone else. This call is strictly personal. You're dating me,  _not_  Alexandra Saxton." She said firmly.

The Editor sighed. She despised the arrangement, but since her track record with relationships was so terribly bad, she thought she'd better let Andrea take the reins of this aspect of their…  _dating._ She had scoffed at the very idea – she was Miranda Priestly; there was no separation between herself and her work. But she agreed to it because she could see Andrea and Alexandra were still two very distinct people. Alexandra had not quite killed Andrea like Miranda had Miriam. If she had her way, Miranda would make sure she never, ever would.

"Right, right. Then I'll have my assistant contact her assistant to see whether she can give me a business call sometime this week." She said.

"That seems like a good idea." Andrea replied. Some background noise indicated someone was calling to her attention. "Damn, I have to go. You'll get a personal call soon. Claire will get back to you on that business one."

"Yes, well."

They hung up.

* * *

"Who was that?"

"Miranda."

"Personal call?"

Andrea smiled. "Yes. Miranda and I chat sometimes."

Emily held in what would have been a rather inelegant guffaw of laughter.

"Nothing like becoming fashion royalty to make the Devil in Prada  _chatty._ " She retorted, handing Andrea a glass of prosecco. "Now" she said, taking a seat of her own "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm having a slight… staffing problem, and I heard you might be able to help me out, Em." Andrea said through a smirk. Emily raised an eyebrow.

"A staffing problem? Are you looking to poach somebody from  _British Runway,_ Andrea?"

"Well, that's the thing, I don't know. I need someone good, I need someone who knows fashion, who knows the markets, who knows trends, and, most importantly, knows how to navigate this chaotic line between art and marketing." The brunette replied, taking a hearty sip. "Do you happen to know anyone with such credentials?"

Emily laughed. "Maybe, just maybe. What is the position for?" she pressed.

"Ah, that's the caveat. I can't tell you, because you won't be involved – yet. When marketing and advertising come into play, then you'll get to know all about it, but for now, this is a project completely independent from any  _Runway_ magazine."

Emily regarded the brunette pensively, taking a sip of her own prosecco. She wasn't stupid; Andrea was telling loads with what she wasn't saying. The newly-minted EIC was sure Andrea knew exactly what she was doing, going around things that way. A  _Runway-_ independent project? Big enough for staffing problems? Despite her personal misgivings and often wavering self-confidence, Emily Charlton had become the youngest Editor in Chief in  _Runway Britain's_ history for s reason. She could safely assume Alexandra Saxton would be soon expanding her brand.

"I see." She said, sending Andrea knowing look. The brunette's responding smirk said she understood the message, loud and clear.

"Yes. Do you know somebody?" Andrea asked again.

Emily smiled.

"I think I just might" she said. "She's got tons of relevant experience, she's got tenacity, and most importantly, I can guarantee she knows how to navigate… what did you call it, this  _chaotic line between art and marketing._ "

Andy perked up, eyebrow raised.

"Where do you know her from?"

"We've worked together for years. She started out as a model – a good one, might I add, and then decided she would like it better behind the scenes. She's worked in Marketing, Beauty, and Art departments in major fashion publications, and I happen to think she's easy on the eyes too." Emily joked at the end, enjoying how Andrea's eyes bugged out.

"Alright, Em. I'm convinced I can at least meet with this woman. Can you send me her contact info?"

"I'll do you one better." Emily said, standing up. "Wait here."

With that, the redhead swiftly scurried away, leaving a confused Andrea to her own devices.

Nothing could have prepared Andrea to see Emily return with an old friend from her days at  _Runway._ The beautiful Serena, who had taken time to teach Andy some of the intricacies of the fashion world – once she showed herself willing to learn, that is – was being literally dragged by a very excited Emily.

"Andrea, you remember Serena. Serena, you remember Andrea – or you may now know her as Alexandra Saxton." Emily said.

Andrea laughed heartily.

"Serena, it's so great to meet you. I hear you're looking for a job? What are you even doing in London?"

The Brazilian smiled.

"It's great to see you too, Andy – you look excellent! And yes, I am – I quit  _Runway_ to be with Emily."

Andrea looked at the two women standing in front of her, understanding finally dawning on her face. When she had met Emily before the dreadful binder fiasco, the redhead had kept her cards close to her chest – she had briefly mentioned a relationship, but had never elaborated on it, or on who. Andrea had certainly not thought it was serious enough for her partner to move across the ocean just to be with her. Emily had certainly learned a trick or two over the years.

"Emily Charlton! How come you didn't tell me you two were a thing!" She joked good-naturedly. As accepting as the fashion industry was, the world of publishing was rife with several pitfalls and people with closed minds, especially when it came to executive boardrooms. It was no surprise Emily had opted for the utmost discretion.

"My Emily can be a bit too careful." Serena said.

"I understand. I'd love to talk shop with you – but Emily will need to go make herself scarce" Andrea joked. The Brit in question threw her hands up in fake defeat, quickly leaving the room once more.

"So" Andrea started again once the two women had sat down. "I hear you're looking for a job, huh?"

Serena nodded, her smile never wavering. "Yes. Ever since the move here, I've been… Well, I've been looking, but it has not been easy." She admitted.

"I imagine" Andrea agreed. "I'm assuming you don't have a European passport?" she asked. Serena tensed.

"Unfortunately, no, I do not. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all" Andrea asked, hoping to put the blonde at ease. She had a good feeling about Serena, and at the moment there was very little that would stop her from hiring her.

"Oh" Serena said, clearly surprised. "That's good, then. May I ask what the job entails?"

"Before I start" Andrea said, reaching into her briefcase. "Would you mind signing this NDA? Whatever we discuss in this interview cannot be shared with anyone – not even Emily. If I do end up hiring you, you'll most likely have to sign an updated, more expansive NDA." The brunette said, handing a clipboard with the document already attached to Serena.

The Brazilian eyed the document suspiciously, then turned back to Andy.

"You are expanding your brand, aren't you?" She said.

Andy smiled. "Sign and find out." She baited.

Serena quickly scanned the document and scrawled her signature with a cocked eyebrow, taking in Andrea's apparent humor in the situation. "I hope I'm not signing my soul away, or something."

The brunette laughed. "Too late!" then she straightened her shoulders, and her eyes got colder somehow. In an instant, Serena noticed the posture of her old friend change dramatically – there was more poise, more purpose, and an elegance that she would never have equated to the Andy Sachs she came to know at  _Runway._ This is what Emily called the transition – she mentioned it so many times she had Serena confused, but now she understood. In the blink of an eye, she went from a meeting with Andy Sachs to a job interview with Alexandra Saxton. She could only hope she was ready for it.

"Now" Andy – Alexandra started, her voice much softer now "We have that out of the way, I can give you a bit of background."

"As you well know, the Saxton brand has not been available to the greater part of the general public since its inception. With the continued success of my collections, however, I think that is about to change".

Serena nodded, unsurprised. With the overwhelming success of Saxton collections, it was only a matter of time until a brand expansion became a reality. The timing was almost always the Achilles' heel of many a designer: James Holt came to mind, riding high on the success of his first couple of collections. Everyone remembered quite well how Holt International imploded so soon after its inception. But Serena very much doubted the Saxton brand would suffer a similar fate; for starters, Alexandra was at this point quite an experienced designer – she had not had even a minor slump over eight years. Additionally, Alexandra – unlike James, was not a complete fool. That would certainly help matters.

"I see. Do go on." Serena said.

* * *

By the time Emily walked Andrea out, Serena had the biggest smile she had sported in a good long while. The redhead could only surmise it meant good news. Still, she could not help but ask.

"Well?" she yipped, unable to contain herself.

Serena's smile only widened, her eyes filled with mirth.

"I can't tell you. I signed an NDA." She quipped happily.

Emily had to work hard to suppress a frustrated grunt.

"Oh, sod the NDA! At least tell me, have you got it? The job?"

The Brazilian took on an air of faux nonchalance.

"Sod the NDA,  _querida_? My, my, with such ethics, how do you expect to run one of the biggest fashion magazines in the entire world if you cannot be trusted to keep a little secret?" Serena retorted, thoroughly enjoying her girlfriend's squirming.

"Se-re-na. Tell. Me." Emily grunted through gritted teeth.

"Oh, relax. I got a job – that is what matters,  _não_?" Serena smiled once more as Emily tried her best to contain a screech of happiness.

* * *

"So what's this I hear about you strong-arming Emily into accepting the  _Runway Britain_ EIC position?" The voice was accusatory, but was overlaid with a little too much humor for Miranda to take it seriously.

"Where have you heard such a wild tale?" she asked as she patted her hair dry. Andrea was on the other side of the screen – after an apparently pleasant afternoon of work, the brunette had managed to wrangle some free time late in the evening for a quick Skype call. Miranda was not complaining.

"I had quite an extensive chat with Serena." The brunette said cheekily. She had a glass of wine in her hand, but she didn't seem to be paying much attention to it. "Is that robe the same one from Paris?"

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Serena needs to learn to keep her pretty little mouth shut. And of course not; why would I keep a robe for so long?"

"Let me rephrase it; is it the same brand? It's hard to tell from a screen." Andrea said. Miranda scoffed.

"As if you would be able to remember the brand I wore eight years ago." She challenged. Andrea simply laughed.

"Miranda, I remember you coffee order, down to the decimals in the temperature." The brunette challenged, taking a sip of her wine.

Miranda removed the towel from her hair, letting the wet, silvery strands fall over her forehead. Andrea immediately stopped sipping her wine.

"Very well then. What was the brand?" she asked, her voice in its smoothest, most dulcet tone. She looked directly at Andrea. The brunette smiled in victory.

"I distinctly remember it was a Chanel robe. Grey silk with a tasteful satin silver trim." She drawled.

Miranda's eyes widened slightly in true surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound was forthcoming. They were having something akin to a moment, but it felt so inexplicably deep and complex she wanted to shy away from it. And yet, she was drawn to it.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken" she lied, swallowing hard. "It was Calvin Klein, satin-blend, with a discreet white trim. Better luck next time."

"You lying little… I know I'm right, Miranda." Andrea insisted, eyebrow cocked. "I don't know why you're lying about a bathrobe, but I know I'm right."

"I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree." Miranda retorted, eager to change the subject. "Have you gotten any news from your mother about your father?"

She blamed her eagerness for the blunder in conversation; obviously Andrea's father was not the safest subject to talk about – that much was abundantly clear when the brunette immediately furrowed her brows in an odd expression as soon as the words left the Editor's mouth. Miranda wanted to knock her head onto her table, hard.

"My apologies," Miranda backtracked "that was insensitive of me."

Surprisingly, Andrea's features softened at the apology.

"It's alright." She said in a defeated tone. "My mother called, but she seemed so rattled. She couldn't tell me what it was. I haven't been able to get a hold of her again."

A weird urge to comfort the young women overcame Miranda. It was quite unusual; she desperately wished she could be by Andrea's side – the thought scared her, somehow. How invested was she, already, in this; whatever it was that they shared?

"She will call" she said simply. "As soon as she is able to. I know it." Did she? Why did her brain suddenly decide its sole mission was to wash away the forlorn expression from those devastatingly deep brown eyes?

"Yeah." Andrea said, not sounding the least bit convinced. The chime of a clock on her end turned her attention away from Miranda for a moment, and the Editor at once longed for it again. "Ah. I've got to go." She murmured, sounding as unhappy with it as Miranda felt.

"Yes. Well. Good night, Andrea. It will be alright." Miranda said awkwardly. Her brain wanted her to say more, to say something more meaningful, but she could not bring herself to.

"Yes. Thank you, Miranda. Good night." Andrea responded. She stopped short of speaking again, but then her screen immediately went black.

Miranda sighed, closing her laptop with a quiet click. She finished her ablutions and sunk into the plush loveseat she kept in her bedroom, pondering a few too many things to ponder all at once. The chime of a text interrupted her.

Glancing down, she smirked as she read it.

_I know it was Chanel._


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the hardest time writing this chapter. It became way too long, so once again, I'm splitting it - I'm currently reworking the second part into a more full-fledged thing. Thank you for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis

Andrea was in the fuzzy, murky stages of dreaming when her cellphone rang. She couldn’t remember what the dream entailed, exactly; she only knew it involved the smell of coffee, the biting of bourbon, and the softness of grey silk.

The phone rang again, sweeping away the last traces of her dream. She blindly reached over to grasp it.

“Mum! Mum, the phone!” groaned a tired voice to her left.

She grunted something unintelligible in response, finally closing in on her strident quarry.

“M’ello?” she groaned into the receiver.

“Andy?”

The voice on the other hand made her immediately sit up so fast a sudden dizziness clouded her thoughts for a few moments.

“Mom? Mom!” she hissed. Helen had abruptly left for Ohio once she received news of her – separated – husband’s health condition. Andy had assumed it was bad, since her mother had not even spoken to her father in years. But after her first voicemail, Helen had gone radio-silent. It only served to unnerve the brunette even more, conflicting feelings bubbling up in her chest whenever she thought about her father. Harold Sachs had been especially brutal in his dismissal of his own daughter, but as a child, Andy had always been the apple of his eye.

“Andy. Oh, Andy, I am so sorry, I forgot about the time difference” Helen babbled on, her voice strained. Andrea immediately recognized the tone – her mother was exhausted, and had most likely been crying.

“Mom, forget about the time difference” Andy whispered harshly, leaving the bed to pace as Allie had begun to stir in curiosity. “What news is there?”

“Oh, Andy.” Her mother cried. Andrea swallowed dryly, preparing for… For only God knew what.

“Mom. Just tell me, what is it?” she braced herself.

“Andy, it’s cancer.” Her mother deadpanned.

Andrea stilled in her pacing.

Suddenly a massive flood of memories flooded her mind, burdening her head with a weight as heavy as lead. Days in the park playing football in the mud with her father. Her father lifting her over his shoulders at a contest. The way he cried when they dropped her off at university. His worried calls asking her if she had been eating.

“Andy? Are you there?” Helen sniffed.

“Yes.” Andy murmured, her voice wavering like it had never before. Allie looked at her mother in worry, and Andy wanted to leave, to be far away from her daughter in a moment like this – she was too young, too precious and pure for such confusing sadness and grief. But her legs would not move, her feet were frozen to her expensive rug. “Wh-what kind?”

“Pancreatic.” Her mother sighed heavily. “Andy, it’s Stage III, as far as they can tell. It’s in his lymph nodes, in his blood, and there… there’s very little they can do.”

Andy held back tears. A sizeable part of her – the part called Alexandra Saxton, the part that had separated completely from her past as Andy Sachs – did not want to cry over the man who had betrayed her so deeply. Who had called her trash, who had disavowed her very existence. That part urged her to hang up the phone immediately and forget everything about Helen and Harold Sachs.

But another part hung onto the memories in the park, onto the man’s strong arms as he spun her around in happy circles in their yard. It remembered his cheers on her hockey games, it recalled rather vividly how warm and comforting his embrace was when she broke her leg at eight years of age. It squeezed the tears out of her body by force.

“How…” she breathed in and out, exhaling heavily. Did she dare ask? “How… how long does he have?”

Helen breathed out shakily. “With treatment? Six to eight months, at best. Without… cut that in half, maybe less.” She choked out a sob. “I don’t know what to do. We were separated, but he is still my husband, and I… I loved him once. And everyone keeps telling me of a friend or an uncle or a grandfather who lived for years… But the reality… the reality is, Andy, he won’t live long.”

Andy hadn’t noticed she had closed her free hand into a tight fist until she felt little fingers slowly prying her own open. Allie had scooted closer to her mother, her eyes full of fear, no doubt mirroring Andrea’s. She lightly traced over the nail marks on her mother’s palm.

Andrea looked at her daughter, her little angel, and felt the urge to cry intensify tenfold.

“Mom, I… Where is he? Where are you?” she whimpered, stroking Allie’s hair – trying to simultaneously comfort her daughter and anchor herself to something.

“Cleveland Clinic.” Helen replied, her voice hoarse. “They have a good Oncology department here, and… your father’s brother brought him here. They had been spending some time together in Cleveland.”

“Uncle Ed is there?” Andrea asked, closing her eyes. Her father had always been religious to some degree, but his older brother was a zealot. When Harold kicked his daughter to the curb, Edmund had taken it upon himself to vilify her to the rest of the Sachs family – the last contact she had had with the man took place barely a month after her departure, when he sent her an inflammatory email she would much rather forget.

“Yes” her mother said, in understanding and shame. “He was _not_ happy to see me, but I am your father’s health care proxy, still.”

Andrea nodded, unsure of what to say. Allie gripped her hand tight.

“Mom, I… Can I call you back in a while? It’s three in the morning, I need to… I need to wake up fully for this conversation.”

“I’m sorry, honey… I forgot about the time… It’s… I just got the update, and I know I didn’t call. Go back to bed, darling, you can call anytime.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Andrea said, hanging up before she lost control completely. She could tell her shoulders were shaking, and a few tears had escaped her iron will. Allie looked up at her, frightened.

“Mummy? Is everything alright?” she asked, her voice small and afraid.

Andrea couldn’t answer. Without a word, she hugged her daughter tightly and cried.

 

 

The slamming of her door against the wall woke Claire Murdoch quickly enough for her to reach for the pepper spray she kept Velcroed to the side panel of her nightstand. The intruder, however, was much quicker: they quickly disarmed her, tossing the spray to the other side of the room and lighting her lamp in what seemed to be one fluid, angry movement.

“What the fu—”

“Get me the jet; I need clearance for a flight to Cleveland, Ohio, _now._ Call Gregory and the crew, I want the plane primed and ready before I get there. Call Mary, she’ll work extended hours starting today; see that we adjust her pay accordingly. And call Elizabeth James and the rest of the staff; I’m postponing the inaugural meeting indefinitely.”

Claire rubbed the blurriness away from her eyes, only to see a fully dressed and made up Andrea yanking clothes from her wardrobe. Her brain struggled to keep up.

“Cleveland? Flight? Meeting? What the fuck is going on?” she groaned.

Andrea ignored her, swiftly tossing some trousers and a blouse in her direction.

“Where is the public kit? The one with the wig and the glasses?” she commanded, her voice steely and sharp.

“Why on Earth do you need it? Alexandra Saxton is out, is she not?”

“Alexandra Saxton is _not_ going to Cleveland.” Andrea retorted sharply.

“And why the hell is Andy Bloody Sachs storming off to fucking Ohio? You haven’t been to the States in almost nine years!” Claire demanded, sleep now forgotten.

Andrea turned to Claire. The blonde had thought her boss and friend was angry, furious even. Looking directly into her eyes now, she realized she was mistaken – Andrea was scared, and Alexandra had come out baring teeth as a defense mechanism.

“My father is dying.” She said, her tone hot and scathing. “It’s cancer. It’s bad.” She added caustically at Claire’s incredulous expression.

“And what makes you think you’ll just be jetting off to bloody Ohio all by yourself? I am coming with you!” she yelped, getting up and hurriedly undressing and putting on the blouse Andrea had tossed at her, misplacing several buttons in her haste.

Andrea’s expression was hard as stone as she took a few steps towards the blonde. Claire shivered as cold hands delicately reached for her chest and swiftly unbuttoned the blouse she had just done up. Without a word, Andrea worked each and every single button back into its correct place, taking the time to smooth down the other woman’s lapels.

“This is not up for debate.” Andrea said, so close Claire could feel her hot breath on her cheeks. “Get it done, and get it done now.” She said through gritted teeth, walking away immediately after.

Claire scrambled, sliding her trousers on in record speed and traipsing after the brunette.

“Oi! Don’t walk away from me, Sachs! What about Allie?” She yelped after Andrea in the corridor, finally catching up once the other woman entered one of the massive storage closets.

“That is why you’re calling Mary and extending her hours – and pay.”

“Let me come with you.” Claire insisted, unsure of how to proceed. She had never seen the brunette rattled in such a way.

“That is out of the question” Andrea hissed. She turned to her assistant. “You will deal with this from here – _absolutely no one_ can know I am out of town. This is personal.” She said, digging through a box.

Claire snagged Andrea’s arm. The brunette’s expression was unreadable.

“Andrea.” She said, her voice soft. “You don’t have to go.” She pleaded.

Andrea’s eyes were cold. “He’s still my father.”

Claire scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You have no obligation to that _monster_ of a man! Don’t you remember what he did to us? Don’t you remember what he _said_? Your father died the day he said _you were not his daughter anymore!_ ” she seethed, holding tightly onto Andrea’s shoulders, barely containing the compulsion to shake some sense into her friend.

Andrea jerked herself away from the blonde’s grasp. “Don’t you _dare_ say that! How dare you think I’d forget?” she cried, her fury now evident in her burning gaze. “I remember _everything_ he said. _Everything._ It’s in my head _constantly,_ it _hurts_ me constantly.” She shook her head, grabbing onto Claire’s arms and pushing her away. “You don’t understand!”

Something inside Claire snapped, and she fought back, clutching Andrea’s shoulders and pushing the brunette’s body against the closet wall. She could feel the heat of tear tracks on her cheeks and hated Andrea for it.

“I do!” she yelled, their noses almost touching in their altercation. “I do understand! Don’t you fucking forget what my own father did to me – your little family _spat_ is like a fucking walk in the park! You don’t get to reduce my pain, Sachs!” she cried.

“And you don’t get to dictate mine!” Andrea barked back as the two women grappled for control. In their frenzied struggle, one of them slipped onto the corner of the rug, sending them both tumbling onto the ground. Andrea landed on her back with a loud ‘oomph,’ and had the air knocked out of her lungs as Claire landed straight onto her.

Before she could even blink, the brunette felt her arms being pinned to the floor. She struggled against them briefly, but opened her eyes as she felt hot drips onto her face. Andrea gazed up to Claire’s green eyes to find them wet with tears.

The two women gazed at each other, panting heavily after their sudden altercation. Andrea tried, but could not help her own tears from falling, mixing with Claire’s fallen tears onto her cheeks.

“Please.” Claire whimpered, so softly Andrea struggled to hear. “Please don’t go. Or let me go with you.” She shook her head when Andrea moved to speak, tightening her grip of the brunette’s wrists. “Please.”

Andy shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

Claire released her, her arms going limp. She did not move from her position straddling her friend’s thighs, but rather sat back and tried to contain a sob.

“Claire.”

The blonde found herself being yanked back down by the lapels. Andrea embraced her tightly, letting her drown her heaving sobs into the crook of her neck. Claire snaked her arms around Andrea, holding on tight.

“You need a friend.” She sobbed. “I know I did, and I didn’t have one. Please.”

The two held one another for a long time. Andrea rubbed soothing circles onto her friend’s back as Claire wept, leaving a pool of wetness onto the brunette’s neck. Claire only spoke again after her sobs had subsided.

“I am afraid of what seeing him will do to you.” She confessed, nuzzling Andrea’s neck. “Please reconsider this madness.” She pleaded.

Andrea subtly shook her head no.

“If I don’t go, it’ll drive me insane.” She confessed. She moved her hands up the blonde’s arms, shoulders, until they rested onto her tear-tracked cheeks. Andrea held her close for an impossibly long moment. “I have to go, Claire. Please.” She cried. “Please, help me.”

Claire stroked the brunette’s cheek, wiping away at renewed tears.

“What can I do?”

Andrea blinked back at her tears.

“Your job.”

 

 


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAHHH FIFTY FREAKIN' CHAPTERS IS THIS REAL LIFE? Anyway, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> ~Naralanis

No one really paid any attention to the young woman strolling by Cleveland Hopkins International Airport that evening. She was, after all, like several other women around the airport, the town, the world: tall, blonde hair cascading in luscious curls, and oversized glasses that made her look fashionable, but playful. Her wardrobe was practical – slacks and a button-down blouse in a pleasant shade of green, all put together with dark leather shoes sensible for travelling. She carried her jacket on the crook of her elbow.

What set her apart from most other young women roaming the airport was perhaps the uniformed driver waiting for her. He held an iPad with the name ‘Andy’ written in big bold letters on a white screen. He helped her into the sleek Mercedes and then drove off. No one spared them a second glance.

Andrea waited until she was safely ensconced in her hotel suite to rip off the blonde wig. With a sigh, she massaged her scalp and removed the prop glasses. Most people thought the idea of a disguise was fun and exciting, like an international spy in a top-secret mission. She could speak from experience, it was nothing like that at all. It was an inconvenience and a hassle – not to mention, mightily uncomfortable. Still, she had to breathe out a sigh of relief – no one had recognized her. Having the one and only Alexandra Saxton strolling about an airport or hotel in _Cleveland, Ohio_ would be strange enough to beggar belief, but with the amount of media coverage she had gotten over the past few months, she was not taking any chances.

She had tried to call her mother back before the flight – expertly, quickly, and discreetly arranged by Claire – took off. After their little heart-to-heart on the closet floor, the blonde had gone into total assistant mode, for which Andy was immensely grateful. She understood Claire’s misgivings, just as Claire understood hers. It was not the first time they had had such an intense discussion or moment; that had been the nature of their relationship to begin with.

Andy looked at her phone screen, dismayed to find no messages from her mother. Claire had updated her on a few work things, forwarding and redirecting a few emails, but there was nothing from Helen.

The brunette stared at her screen, debating calling someone else. Miranda. She was in two ways about it – on one hand, she would trust her… girlfriend? with this sort of thing. But was Miranda her girlfriend? She knew they had a relationship; were _in_ a relationship, but navigating it was one of the most complex things she had ever attempted. It was easier when Miranda was there.

Deciding to forget Miranda for now, Andrea forcefully stabbed her mother’s contact icon. The line rang.

“Pick up. Pick up. Pick. Up.” She muttered under her breath.

“Hello?”

“Mom! Finally!” she could not help gasp out.

“Andy? Oh, honey, I’m sorry. My phone died and I don’t have my charger with me. Someone was kind enough to lend me theirs.” Helen explained. “How are you holding up?”

Andrea shook her head, even though her mother could not see it.

“Forget about me. Where are you staying?”

“I just got a room at a motel a few minutes away from the hospital. Why?”

“Cancel the room. I’m at the Intercontinental, come here and ask to go to Andrea Elizabeth – it’s the name I used. Come to the Erie suite.” She rattled, tossing her bag to the side of the enormous bed provided.

She heard her mother gasp on the other side of the line. “You mean… Andy! Are you in Cleveland? How… When did you get here? How did…”

“I got here less than an hour ago. I just walked into the room myself, Ma. Cancel the motel, get over here and get some rest. The hotel is literally a five-minute walk from the hospital, that’s why I chose it.”

“Andy, honey, I…”

“Ma! Please?” Andy interjected. She was rattled and frustrated. She had left London in a flurry and now began to have second thoughts about her crazed departure.

Never in a million years had she thought her return to the States would happen in such a fashion. Truth be told, she had never expected to return to Ohio, period, especially after she found out her mother was living in New York.

With a morose sigh, she looked out her massive bay windows. There was a breathtaking view of Lake Erie, but she could not bring herself to enjoy it. Nothing about this made sense. She wanted to make a splash in New York with her return.

Andy let out a bitter chuckle at the thought. She always knew she would return to New York some day as Alexandra Saxton. She and Claire had been planning her reveal for a few years down the line, incidentally. They knew they couldn’t keep Alexandra a secret forever, but they had done so amazingly well for the past eight years, it seemed safe to assume they’d hold down the fort for a few years more. Just until Miranda retired.

That had been the plan all along. Despite her strong Alexandra Saxton façade, Andy Sachs was still too chicken-shit to face the Devil in Prada as herself. So she and Claire had decided to wait until the Editor had stepped down from _Runway_ – or, knowing Miranda, stepped _up_ to occupy some chair in the boardroom of Elias-Clarke. In any case, they did not want to deal with Miranda—or anybody, really – publishing Saxton before Andy was ready. It would have been a parting gift, something along the lines of _You couldn’t have Alexandra, Miranda, but neither could anyone else._

That had been the gist of it. Then came Emily and Eliza and the ridiculous Binder Fiasco. Of course it had been terrified, but on the other hand, it was exhilarating. After years of what-ifs, Andy finally realized she did have enough strength to stand toe-to-toe with the Ice Queen herself. Manipulating Miranda had been underhanded, but knowing she had the ability to do so was almost intoxicating.

Andrea’s thoughts were interrupted by her ringing phone. She didn’t even look down at the number – which she had not saved – before swiftly pressing decline. Speak of the Devil. She did not have the strength to talk to Miranda right now. She did not want to lie and act like any other day, but she was hesitant to tell the woman what exactly was wrong. They had opened up enough as it was at this early a stage.

The phone buzzed again. She hit decline.

 

* * *

 

 

Miranda huffed angrily as she stepped out of the shower to answer the ringing landline. The girls had just left for a movie, and she had dismissed the housekeeper, so that left the Queen of Fashion stomping down the stairs in her obscenely expensive Versace slippers, hair dripping water everywhere. Ordinarily, she would not have picked up – she had even forgotten the house actually had a landline – but whoever was calling was insistent. It was the third call so far.

She yanked the phone from the receiver as it began what seemed to be its billionth ring.

“ _What!”_ she hissed.

“Ms. Priestly.”

Miranda bristled immediately. She could count on one hand the number of people who insisted on calling her that – two of them were ex-husbands. But there was only one with that British accent and that infuriating tone.

“Ms. Murdoch” she drawled, injecting as much venom in her voice as she could, so the woman’s name sounded like an insult. There was no love lost between her and Andrea’s assistant. “I can think or no earthly reason as to why you are calling me at this hour, _on my home phone_. You may call my assistant at _Runway_ this coming Monday. Good night.”

“This is a personal call, Ms. Priestly.”

Miranda gritted her teeth at the Ms. Priestly, but her attention was piqued. _What?_

“You and I have nothing personal to say to each other, Ms. Murdoch.”

“True. But Andrea does.”

Miranda halted her incoming diatribe.

“If Andrea wishes to speak to me, there is nothing impeding her from doing so. I tried calling her just a little while ago and she did not respond.” Something was not right, she realized as the words came out of her mouth. She had assumed Andrea was busy working – they had agreed not to make a big deal out of missed calls. But now that the brunette’s blasted assistant was calling her at home, something must have happened. Her mind immediately jumped to all sorts of insane, dangerous conclusions. She ground her thoughts to a halt when she began entertaining the notion Andrea had been kidnapped or killed.

“What has happened?”

“Andrea is in Cleveland.” Claire said, not one to beat around the bush.

Miranda blanched. _Cleveland?!_ What on earth was Andrea doing back in the States – without telling her?

“Her father is dying.” The voice on the other side of the line said matter-of-factly. “Cancer.”

Miranda sighed, sinking into one of the plush chairs in her sitting room. Of course. Her mind wandered back at the discussion she had had with the brunette before her departure from London. She had not known how to comfort Andrea, but she had tried. In the end, it felt like they were opening up too deep, too soon. Were they?

“And what do you want me to do about that? If Andrea has chosen not to tell me about it, that is her prerogative” Miranda hissed, though part of her was undeniably hurt. They’d have to open up at some point, would they not?

“I don’t care about her prerogative right now.” Claire bit back. Miranda was stunned. She could not recall a single stance in which the blonde had not been supportive of Andrea – besides those in which Miranda herself was involved, naturally.  

“I want you to go to Cleveland.” Claire said, her voice strained. Miranda pulled the phone away from her head and stared at it in disbelief, as if doing so would somehow help her make sense of what the other woman had just said. When it didn’t, she brought it back.

“Excuse me? If Andrea has not even told me about it, I highly doubt she wants me there.” She reasoned. She was _reasoning_ with Claire Murdoch. What was the world coming to?

“I _don’t care_ what she wants. It’s what she _needs_ I’m concerned with. And right now, she _needs someone there with her._ ”

“And why aren’t you the one there with her?” Miranda retorted, the thought just now occurring.

“Right now, she needs me to _do my job._ She is under some mad delusion that she must do this – seeing her father die – on her own. She is wrong. She needs somebody there, she needs _you._ ”

Miranda narrowed her eyes.

“I think you assume too much…” she began to say.

“For fuck’s sake!” Claire exploded, her voice trembling. “Don’t you understand?! She _needs_ someone there, and it can’t be me. She does not want me. Can you listen to yourself? I would absolutely kill to be in your fucking shoes, and you don’t see it!”

Miranda blanched. She doubted Claire meant her Prada heels when she said what she said.

“You love her.” She deadpanned.

“No shit, I do.” The other woman seethed. “She’s my best friend in the whole world. And I can’t bear seeing her with Miranda fucking Priestly of ALL people. You have no idea, do you?” Miranda opened her mouth to interject, but Claire was nowhere near finished. “You almost ruined her life – twice! Eight years, eight _fucking_ years with you lurking in the shadows. You drove Andrea to insanity, you drove her to drink, you drove her to fucking Arturo Bosco, you drove her up the walls and then you just waltz back into her life like it’s nothing! And she lets you!”

“I beg your pardon!?” Miranda snapped, but Claire pushed on.

“You, Miranda Priestly, are the bane of her existence. God knows what the hell she sees in you. You’re toying with her feelings and all I can do is sit back and wait to pick up the pieces when – _when,_ not _if ­–_ you break her heart again.”

“I have no intention of doing that.” Miranda whispered, clutching her chest. _Again??_ She felt a pang in her chest so unusual and extreme she briefly wondered if she was having a heart attack.

“Hah!” Claire laughed sardonically. “Says the woman giving Elizabeth Taylor a run for her money in total husbands. Face it, Priestly” she said venomously “It’s going to end, and when it does, it’ll be your fault.”

There was a heavy silence, during which all Miranda heard was the blonde composing herself.

“So, for once” she began again, her voice calmer “just this once, pretend that you actually care and go to her. Right now, she needs _you._ Just this once. _”_

Miranda stood, regaining her composure, a certainty she hadn’t felt ever before washing over her body and mind.

“You’re damn right.” She growled, clearly surprising the other woman with the uncharacteristic expletive. “She needs me. Me. Not you.” Her La Priestly tone was back in full force, her words sharp as knives. “And I will go to her. Not _just this once._ I will go to her whenever she needs me. And that, Ms. Murdoch, is because of something your pitiful little love-sick brain cannot and will not ever comprehend – I need her too.”

“Fighting words.” Claire retorted sarcastically. “You don’t love her.” She said bitingly.

“Try me.” Miranda snapped back. All she heard was a muted gasp from the other end of the line. It took a few moments for Claire to speak again.

“Your flight leaves in two hours. I’ve emailed you the info – your personal address. There will be a driver waiting for you at Cleveland Hopkins to take you to Andrea’s hotel.” She said in a harsh murmur.

“Very well. That’s all.” Miranda sniped, hanging up. 

 

* * *

 

Andrea had let her mother sleep for most of the evening and morning of the next day. The woman had arrived crumbling with exhaustion – but still found time to feel guilty about the extravagance of the suite she now occupied with her daughter. Big whoop, Andrea thought. She had the money, and she would not let her mother sleep in some dingy motel. Especially not now that things were so much better between them.

Any hope she had ever held – which wasn’t much to begin with – to ever reconcile with her father was slowly ebbing away, like a tub being drained dry. She was happy to make progress with her mother, but now it seemed obvious that Harold Sachs would die not as her father, but as the man who tossed her aside for what she was.

Still, some of that hope lingered in a persistent small puddle in her proverbial tub. She wasn’t sure if she should let it sit there or if she should wipe it all away.

She sat by the bay windows in the lavish sitting room, nursing an empty glass of what had been bourbon and overlooking the lake. The sun shone brightly over the waters, which refracted it in pretty movements along with the small, quiet waves.

The plan was to go to the hospital as soon as her mother was rested. She wanted to go sooner but found herself chickening out. What the hell would she say to her father? After so many years with zero contact, after their explosive parting? She had played it in her mind going so many different ways.

Her phone rang again, and she knew it was Miranda, but she did not have the strength to speak to the woman right this minute. She didn’t know what to say to her either – it had been years since she felt so weak and vulnerable. She certainly had not felt that way once she got comfortable with the Alexandra Saxton skin.

There was some sudden movement deeper in the suite. She heard footsteps, then the sink running water. Her mother was awake.

Helen Sachs emerged from the suite, looking more well-rested but wearing the same clothes she had on the day before. Andrea frowned, but her mother waved her off with a smile and got started with coffee in the small kitchen area.

“So,” Andrea began, following her mother to the kitchen, stopping by for a refill. “What are the plans?” she asked, ignoring Helen’s raised eyebrow at the bourbon.

“Well… I’m not sure. I’m going back to the hospital today, see if your father is awake.”

“You haven’t spoken to him?” Andrea said, startled. What had her mother been doing that entire time?

“He was in a lot of pain. The few times he was awake enough to talk, your uncle Ed was present and… well, let’s just say he did not want me there.” Helen said, looking defeated.

Andrea bristled. “You’re dad’s proxy, not him. You should be allowed to speak to him!”

“I know, honey, but it’s complicated. Ed’s been fighting me at every turn. He doesn’t want your father to pursue treatment, but your dad has left it in writing that he would want it, even if the prognosis…” she gulped, steeling herself onto the counter for support “even if the prognosis isn’t good.” She finished.

Andrea sighed heavily. She didn’t know what to think. If she were in her father’s position, she didn’t think she would pursue any treatment – why spend the last few months of her life agonizing through aggressive treatment that would not make that much of a difference? Then again, it was Harold’s choice, not hers.

“Is uncle Ed there now?” she asked. She’d rather not be anywhere near her uncle – now or ever.

“He’s usually there in the mornings and evenings” Helen said, looking at her watch.  She turned to her daughter, her expression uncertain. “We should be fine if we go soon.”

Andrea nodded. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ever since she broke her leg as a child, Andrea hated hospitals. The pale walls and squeaky floors, the always uncomfortable chairs, the beeps and noises… But most of all, the smell – latex, medicine, numerous bodily scents, and just that smell that screamed ‘sickness’; it was enough to make her nauseated.

Of course, the nausea only got progressively worse as the elevator she shared with her mother – as well as her anxiety – slowly climbed up to the oncology floor of the Cleveland Clinic. She and Helen had walked to the hospital – she had donned the blonde wig and glasses, just in case. Now, in the relative privacy of the elevator, she had taken the wig off and stuffed it in her purse.

Once the elevator doors opened, Helen led her daughter by the hand towards another reception desk, where they quickly signed in as Harold Sachs’ family. Andrea felt weird writing ‘daughter’ in the ‘Relation to Patient’ box.

Helen took her daughter by the elbow as they walked to Harold’s room. They stopped short at the door – it was open, but a privacy screen shielded most of the man’s bed. A small television mounted on the mint-green wall showed a baseball game – Andrea could discern the uniforms of the Cincinnati Reds from where she stood. There was a window, with a view to the city, and a chair by a small table – the table had a bible, a bouquet of dead flowers, and what looked to be a deck of cards.

There was coughing. Andrea froze in place. Was he awake?

She slowly walked into the room, heels clicking against the hard floor. With inexplicable dread, she slowly pushed back the privacy screen to see her father. A breathless murmur welcomed her intrusion.

“Andy.”

 


	51. Chapter 51

“Andy?”

Andrea stood, frozen to her spot upon hearing her father’s voice. It was nothing like she remembered; it was raspy, breathy, and so weak. She looked at him lying on the hospital bed and saw a mere shadow of the man she remembered as her father.

Through Andy’s life, her father had been a symbol of strength. He was the one to carry the huge trees they put up for Christmas; he was the one to shovel all the snow from their long driveway; he was the one to spin Andy in happy circles in the park. He was the one carrying her to the hospital when she broke her leg. He was the one who held her hand as she cried when the doctors set the bone. And he was the one still spinning her in circles when her body was weighed down by the heavy cast.

With such memories defining her father’s strength, nothing could have prepared her for how thin and emaciated he looked. There were tubes poking out of him every which way, and the faint beeps and hums of the machines surrounding him made the whole picture look even more ominous. His arms lay limply at his sides, his wrists so thin it looked like his patient wristband was about to slide off.

She couldn’t bear looking at his face, but that was where her eyes naturally traveled next. She held down a gasp at his gaunt features, white stubble peppering his chin and cheeks. A small oxygen tube rested just at his nose.

Everything she saw should have been enough to render Harold Sachs unrecognizable, even to his daughter. And yet, what made him a complete stranger in her eyes was not his general haggard appearance or the hospital equipment beeping around him, but his eyes. His eyes, which throughout her life had been deep pools of brown much like her own, now looked dull and greyed, as if someone had smudged polished irises. They looked directly at her, conveying surprise, and even shock, but they made her father a complete stranger.

“Andy?” he rasped again. Andrea could almost feel the timbre of his voice struggling, scratching against his throat. “Is that my Andy?” he said, reaching weakly for the tube on his nose.

“Hey dad.” Andrea whispered, unsure of what else she could say. There were no words upon the Earth with which she could approach her father. The amount of hurt he had caused her lingered, burning like embers beneath her skin, and yet, there he was on the brink of death. The vision of her father lying helpless and weak in that hospital bed knocked the air out of her lungs in a cold sweep; she felt like she was drowning in freezing water.

She took the two more steps required to reach his bed. There was another chair, a metal foldable one, right by his side. Andrea hesitantly lowered herself onto it, never breaking eye contact with her father. He coughed deeply, the sound seemed to rattle inside his body.

“You’re about as thin as a stick. Don’t that wife of yours feed ya?” he ground out through his cough.

“Who?” Andy asked, confused.

“That girl of yours. The blonde, what’s her face.” He rasped, shakily and vaguely gesturing with a weak hand. “The Brit from Thanksgiving.”

“Oh. You mean Claire?” she spoke up, surprised her father had brought the woman up – they had only interacted once, almost nine years before. “We’re not married, dad, never were. I’m… I’m not married to anyone.”

Harold coughed uncomfortably for a few moments. “Figures. I knew she’d have my girl living in sin.” He rasped in between coughs.

Andrea bristled, but her father was waving her off before she could even speak.

“Argh. Ignore me. At this point I don’t care what’s going on, I’m just glad I could see you before I kick the bucket.” He heaved. Andy was at a loss. She didn’t know how to deal with or speak to her father anymore. His imminent death threw yet another wrench in things.

“You look different” he said hoarsely. “Skinny.” He tried to clear his throat, which only resulted in another coughing fit. “Must be all that rotten British food.” He finally finished.

Before she could help it, Andrea found herself smiling. “It’s mostly fine.”

“It better be” Harold quipped, his breathing a little more under control. He pointed shakily at the television on the wall. “I see you all the time, going in and out those fancy restaurants. Explains why you’re so skinny, those fancy portions are so damn tiny.”

“You’ve seen me?” Andy asked, surprised. “On TV?”

Harold coughed yet again. “Damn, kid, I don’t think I could have missed it even if I tried. You’re everywhere.” He heaved through a small smile. “Alexandra. Like Gran?”

Andy blushed and smiled despite herself. Alexandra Sachs, her grandmother, had been her favorite person in the entire world. She was the only one who genuinely clicked with Andy, who knew how she ticked and why. A stroke had taken her away the day after Andy’s eleventh birthday. She was the strongest woman Andy had ever known, and she wanted to channel some of that strength in her persona. Andy nodded in confirmation.

“Who’d have thunk it.” Her father said, his expression unreadable. “She would have been proud of you, kiddo.”

Andrea didn’t know what to say to that. There were a million questions and accusations swirling through her mind, but she had no idea how to bring them up or even if she should. The self-doubting part of her wondered if her father meant it, and if he could find it in himself to be proud of her despite everything.

“How have you been holdin’ up?” she asked, deliberately straying from that particular train of thought. Better not talk of the past with so little time ahead of them.

“Like crap” he mumbled, tugging at the tube resting on his face. “If this weren’t bad enough, the food here stinks.” He babbled. Andrea recognized the silent agreement that had just transpired between them. The past would not be spoken of, at least for now.

Andrea heard the timid steps of her mother entering the room. Her father’s eyebrows quirked slightly.

“Harold?” she whispered, slowly approaching. Andrea could see it in her eyes, she was surveying the situation for any animosity between the two. She would not find any for now.

“Hey, Hel. Good to finally see ya.”

Helen sat softly on the side of his bed, her eyes tired and watery. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Hurts everywhere. But at least I don’t have to get up to pee.” he waggled his brows. Helen rolled her eyes, but smiled.

“I’m glad you’re finding something to be happy about.” She retorted sarcastically.

“It’s the little things.” He nodded with a smile, and Andrea felt as if she had just stepped into an episode of the _Twilight Zone._ Where was the bitterness, from either of them? Helen shook her head.

“Do you need anything, Harold?” she asked tenderly.

“I’d give my right arm for a chocolate bar, hun.”

Helen smiled once more and went on her way, leaving Andrea more confused than ever before. Sure, her father was dying, but weren’t they bitter and angry over their separation? At all?

“Don’t overthink it, kid. It’ll kill ya.” He mumbled as if he had read her mind. “Just go with it for now, if not for me, for your mother’s sake.”

All Andrea could do was nod. Her father glanced at the deck of cards on the small table by the window. “Now, how about a game of poker so we don’t have to sit here and talk?”

Andrea chuckled despite herself, standing up and walking over to the table, heels clicking away. She sat back already shuffling the cards while Harold pulled out the tray attached to his bed.

“Ready?” she asked, poised to deal.

“As ever” he coughed. “Got a perfect record to defend.”

 

 

Miranda’s arrival at Cleveland Hopkins was among some of the most discreet she had ever experienced. Ever since she became _Runway’s_ Editor in Chief, her arrivals were always news-worthy – if what one read on the tabloids could be considered news. But her arrival was almost completely secret, or that is what it felt like. Andrea had found a tremendously efficient assistant in Claire, and Miranda momentarily lamented she hated the blonde so much – her skills could have been of great use to _Runway._ She shook her head in disbelief. Did she really long for such efficient she’d consider Claire? No.

Miranda sat in the back of a discreet town car that slowly made its way to wherever it was that Andrea was staying. She had not found the opportunity to speak to the brunette as of yet, so it looked like Andrea would get the surprise of a lifetime when Miranda showed up. Whether it would count as a good surprise or not was still to be determined.

Her phone rang, and Cassidy’s face popped up. She picked up immediately.

“I know duty calls and all, but just leaving a note is very unlike you.” She quipped, her voice devoid of any accusation.

“I know, Bobbsey. I am very sorry, but…” how could she even begin to explain it to her daughter – especially the nosy one? _I’m terribly sorry, darling, but my girlfriend/lover’s father is about to die and I am here to provide some kind of emotional support she doesn’t know she needs… Also, she’s Alexandra Saxton._ There was no way. “A friend of mine had an emergency.” She finished lamely.

“A friend?” Cassidy said, clearly not buying it. She was right to doubt Miranda – her mother didn’t really have friends. She had colleagues, she had acquaintances, she had employees. The closest thing to a friend she ever had was Nigel. “Must be serious, for you to disappear in the dead of night.” She joked.

“I am terribly sorry, darling.” Miranda cringed.

“S’alright, mom” her daughter said nonchalantly, and Miranda could tell she meant it. “Do what you need to do. Keep us posted though, OK?”

“Thank you, darling. I will.”

Cassidy hung up with a quick ‘I love you,’ and Miranda could breathe normally once again. She would need to learn to navigate the logistics and semantics of her relationship with Andrea if she ever had any hope of ever discussing it with her daughters. If she and Andrea ever made it to that point, she thought grimly, with Claire Murdoch’s outburst playing over and over in her mind. They would make it. They had to.

Miranda almost scoffed when the car pulled up to the opulent Intercontinental Hotel. She smiled. _Everyone wants to be us._

 

 

“Sorry to disappoint ya, kid. Full house.”

“Ah, dammit! That’s just so unfair,” Andrea whined, dramatically unveiling her hand to her father. “To you, I mean. Straight flush.” She could not contain her smirk at her father’s bewildered expression. “Seems like your perfect record is over.”

He looked at her cards suspiciously. “Damn, Andy. You’ve really worked on that poker face.” He lamented. Andrea’s smile faltered a little.

“Yeah… I needed it for work.” She commented. Her father took the cards and started shuffling them, albeit with some difficulty.

“Work must be pretty exciting, no? I’ve seen your shows on the TV.” He said, dealing again. He did not look at Andrea at all, choosing instead to focus on his cards.

“You have?” she asked, surprised, but taking a note off his book and staring intently at the crap hand she had been dealt. Her father didn’t seem like the type to watch fashion – especially if the one responsible was the daughter he had basically thrown out.

“Yeah; they’re all real pretty. There were reporters at the house, y’know?” he commented. Andrea was about to interject, but he kept on. “I had already moved out – the new owners were kind enough not to give them my new address. “But that friend of yours, Lilly, she called when you came out on that magazine. Vogue.”

Andrea took a few moments to ponder. Lilly had called her father. She wondered who else came crawling under the woodwork.

“Huh. What did she say?”

“Wanted to know what I knew. She was mighty disappointed I didn’t have anything to go on about you.”

Andrea scoffed. “Figures.” She said simply. She had not spoken to or heard of Lilly since she left New York. They had tried to rebuild their friendship after Nate relocated to Boston, but Lilly had been surprisingly intolerant when Andrea came out to her – not because of her sexuality, oh no, but because Andrea had, in her words, _led Nate on for so long._

It did not bear thinking about.

They played in silence for a few more minutes. Andrea's head was swirling with a million questions, but she dared not give them a voice. A fear she had not known in years lurked just beneath the surface. Would it really be that terrible if she and her dad never discussed anything besides cards? Could they play poker well into his final hours? Would she be able to let it pass her by?

She looked at her father once more. No, would not.

"Dad?" She asked, her voice timid like it had been too long ago. When she was nothing but a child.

Harold concentrated even harder on his cards. Perhaps he could read his daughter's tone better than she anticipated.

"Dad?" Andrea repeated, putting her cards face down on the tray, her tone firmer.

"Yeah?" He quipped, still looking at his cards.

"Are..." Suddenly Andrea had no idea how to proceed. "How are we doing this?" She let out, almost unwittingly.

Harold shrugged his shoulders.

"Doing what?"

"This" Andrea motioned vaguely to the space between them. "You lying here dying, me flying from London. I haven't seen you in... in so long."

"Yeah..." Harold commented, his voice empty. "Well, that was your choice, kid. Guess you gotta live with it, because I sure as hell won't." He finished in a bitter laugh. His eyes still refused to meet his daughter's.

Andrea bristled angrily.

"My choice? _My_ choice?" She snapped through gritted teeth. "You threw me out of the house, dad. You told me I was an abomination." She took a breath, steeling herself and letting her voice drop to the dangerous register most people knew as Alexandra Saxton. "You said you didn't have a daughter anymore."

Harold dropped his cards onto the tray. "Well, what did you want me to do, kid? Say 'go ahead with this kind of sin in my house, I won't mind. Keep up with all this depravity, as long as my precious girl has her freedom to whore around'?!" He hissed.

"Whore around?" Andrea snipped derisively, her hands itching to clench into fists. "Can't you even guess how confused I was? About myself, about my own sexuality... then I bring the woman I loved home and my own parents – people who always said they'd love me unconditionally – throw us both out, yelling obscenities?"

"How'd you think I felt?" Harold yipped defensively, weakly throwing his hands up in the air. "I love you, Andy, I really do, unconditionally, but there are some things a man of faith just can't tolerate."

Andrea couldn't help herself, she truly couldn't. She laughed and was pleased to see the shock in her father's eyes as he heard the venomous, intimidating chuckle that had Alexandra Saxton's minions shaking in their boots.

“Father” she said caustically “I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of the word ‘unconditionally.’ I suggest you look it up in the dictionary before you kick the proverbial bucket.”

Harold seemed too shocked to respond immediately – his mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound was forthcoming. Andrea leaned back in her uncomfortable chair, revealing her hand.

“Royal Flush. I win.”

Her father exhaled in frustration, giving his hand a second look. He gathered the cards again and resumed shuffling.

“You mother threw you out too, you know.” He said as he dealt.

“Yeah.” Andrea agreed. “And it really, really hurt. You know what else she did?”

“What would that be?”

“She left you to find me.”

He scoffed. “I guess anything counts for something.”

“Oh, definitely. Anything is better than nothing, after all.”

Harold sighed, tossing his hand onto the tray. “What do you want me to say, Andy?”

Andrea leaned back, discarding her hand and crossing her arms across her chest. She looked straight at her father above the rim of the glasses she still wore. “A simple apology would be wonderful start – it’s not like you have the time to rebuild lost relationships, right?”

“What good would it do?” her father wheezed out, another coughing fit starting. “It’s been too damn long already. Why should we even speak of it at all? Can’t I just die in peace with my daughter by my side? Is that too much to ask?”

His coughing fit got worse for a few moments. Andrea sighed unhappily, standing and carefully rearranging his pillows.

“It would do me a load of good to know my father didn’t die hating me.” She said when the coughing finally subsided.

“Oh, honey.” Her father said, and the endearment felt foreign and uncomfortable. “I could never hate you. Not really.”

“Ha!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “You’ve got a weird way of showing it, dad.”

“I know, I know.” He said, and for the first time, Andrea thought she could detect the merest hint of remorse in his tone. “I can’t undo all of that. But” he reached out and grasped her hand in his own. “Can I just die with my daughter by my side? Is that too much to ask?”

“Couldn’t I just live with a father who loved and supported me, no matter what? Is that too much to ask?” she shot back. “Face it, dad. We can’t fix this.”

Harold seemed to deflate at her words. His shoulders slumped, his grip faltered, and his face whitened.

“I guess not.” He conceded sadly.

Andrea looked around the hospital room. No matter what they did, nothing could erase or ease the pain the man had brought her. While one side of her soul desperately wanted to forgive and forget, a voice deep in her heart doubted the very possibility. But if the very idea seemed so improbable, why had she hopped on a plane all the way to Cleveland?

Deciding they simply could not linger on the subject, she changed gears.

“I’m tired of poker” she said, gathering the cards and shuffling them once more. “Gin Rummy. Prepare to be dazzled.”

Her father smiled sadly, taking the cards she dealt. He offered no further discussion.

“We’ll see about that.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave.”

The voice coming from the door was so unexpected Andrea almost whipped her head around in surprise. The person was not immediately visible due to the privacy screen, but she would recognize that voice anywhere, anytime. She felt her mental walls rising in defiance, guarding her feelings, her thoughts, her deepest emotions – among them the desire to maybe commit murder.

Her uncle Edmund violently drew the screen back, anger evident in his eyes. His face had not changed much over the years – he was still the same red-faced, tightly wound man she remembered scolding her for misbehaving at church or behaving ‘like a boy.’ Andrea met his furious gaze head on, responding with her own signature glare. Edmund’s face registered a hint of surprise before his anger took entirely over.

“Eddie, cool it. I want her here.”

“This is family only.” Edmund snarled, never backing away from Andrea’s stony glare.

“I’m his daughter.” She said, standing up. In her heels, she was about two inches taller than the man; she felt like an Amazon going into battle.

“Not anymore, you aren’t. Not when you left your family to go live in sin in the lap of luxury.”

Andrea’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“I left because I was kicked out.” She said through gritted teeth. Logic was never her uncle’s strong point. “And I’m here now.”

“We don’t want you here.” He retorted.

“I do, Eddie.” Harold interjected. Edmund shook his head.

“You’re not well. The last thing we need is this Jezebel poisoning the air around you.” He pointed to the door, his gaze never wavering. “Leave, now. I already had your mother escorted outside.”

“You what?!” Andrea hissed, bewildered at the nerve of her uncle. “You had no right! She’s his proxy and his wife, she has more say in all of this than you do!”

“She stopped being his wife when she decided to go cavorting with faggots and trannies in New York. She’s not stable enough to makes these decisions.”

Andrea was about to interject, but felt her father weakly grasping at her hand.

“Andy, honey, go see to your mother. I think Eddie and I have to talk.”

She shot a venomous look in her uncle’s direction, but relented. In a fit of fury, she grabbed her purse and clicked angrily away.

Andrea found her mother sitting in the lobby, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She held a Twix bar – her father’s favorite -- in her hands so tightly Andy figured it was crushed and melted by now.

“Ma!” she said, kneeling in front of her mother and holding her hands in her own. Helen did not let go of the chocolate.

“Oh, Andy, I’m so sorry” she cried. “I should have just come back” Andy wiped at her stray tears. “But Ed intimidates me so, so much. I don’t know how to act around him.” She sniffled. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Andrea rubbed comforting circles on her mother’s shoulders, hoping to calm her down. It was a tall order, since she herself was livid at her uncle’s attitude and her father’s quiet acceptance. She had no idea what to do.

“Come on, ma, let’s go back to the hotel for a while. We can get some food and rest for a little while.”

Helen stood up, but shook her head.

“You go on to the hotel, honey. I have a lunch with an old friend from here; that might be just what I need to clear my head.”

Andrea gave her mother a reassuring smile. “Alright. Call me if you need anything, OK? I’ll be at the hotel. Once I figure out when uncle Ed isn’t here, I might come back. I still need to talk to dad about a lot.”

The two parted ways at the main entrance, with Helen resolutely refusing to take Andrea’s hired car, choosing instead to take the bus to her destination. Andrea had insisted briefly, but understood. Ever since they had reconnected in London, Helen made it a point to refuse Andrea’s help or influence for almost anything – she wanted to make it clear she was not seeking out her daughter for her money or connections.

Andy’s drive back to the Intercontinental was a depressing one. In the privacy of the vehicle, she could slouch into her seat and let out all of the emotions that had been bottled up inside for most of the morning. She cried, but softly, without making a sound. She simply let the tears fall silently down her cheeks, vigorously wiping them dry once the car stopped at the entrance.

Immediately upon entering her suite, she noticed something was off. A Botega-Veneta luggage set was resting right by the foyer, and an emerald green Balenciaga trench was loosely draped over the pristine white couch. With her hand poised on her phone and ready to dial emergency, Andrea turned the corner, expecting someone to pop out of the kitchen or the balcony.

Which only heightened her surprise when Miranda Priestly clicked her way out of the bedroom.

“Ah, there you are. I must say, darling, you are terribly hard to get a hold of.”

 


End file.
